TRUST ME: VOLUME I
by NokuMarieDeux
Summary: A reluctant and unwilling facilitator travels back in time to orchestrate a romance between two young people with communication and commitment problems. It's a tough job but someone's gotta do it!


**TRUST ME • A SUPRANATURAL TALE IN FOUR VOLUMES**

**VOLUME I**

**Note to Reader:** As Author could no more accurately reproduce authentic British vernacular than she could burst into _"O Mio Babbino Caro"_ in Swahili while pirouetting _en pointe_ in a tutu, the following is of necessity rendered in a simulacrum consisting of contemporary Standard Americanese with Southern phraseology, inflections and accents as appropriate. Get over it.

**Dramatis Personae**

_**Dora **_A doleful damsel of twenty, resolutely idealistic with unrequited passions and unfulfilled dreams. Total fox.

_**Steve **_A lugubrious lad of twenty-one, relationally dysfunctional with articulatory dysfluency and anger management issues. Major hunk.

_**Ron **_A cheerful chap of twenty-three, morally ambiguous and diplomatically declined with a heart of slightly tarnished gold. Underrated hottie.

_**Hazel **_A bodacious babe of seventeen, goal-oriented with keen insight and matrimonial aspirations. Primo bird.

_**Bernard **_A chronologically-challenged polymath with multiple personality disorder, podiatric problems and an impossible mission. Unrated.

_**Slugger **_A mature gentleman of unrecognized interior complexity and assorted phobias.

_**Dorothy **_A erudite housekeeper with a twist and a tyrannical disposition. Not to be trifled with.

_**Elayne **_A titled trophy wife with an outrageous attitude and Machiavellian machinations. Dora's confidante.

_**And a bevy of supranaturally empowered females with an agenda.**_

**Equine/Bovine Players**

_**Copper **_A proud bald-faced sorrel sabino Arabian-Thoroughbred cross with high white stockings, open to new experiences. Dora's pride and joy.

_**Alex **_An unassuming pseudo-Appaloosa with no complaints. Stodgy and somewhat lacking in personality. Dear to Steve.

_**Squirrel **_A remarkably unattractive generic horse with identity issues, conformational discrepancies and no apparent redeeming qualities. Bernard's pal.

_**Maude **_A geriatric Jersey with extreme prejudice and homicidal tendencies. Dorothy's sidekick.

_**Donkey **_An ass with no issues and no relevance to this story.

**PART ONE • SATURDAY & SUNDAY**

_**August 10, 2010**_

CHAPTER 1: _**Prologue: A preposterous proposition**_

"**We have to talk." **I knew I was in trouble as soon as my wife, joining me in the great room and taking her chair opposite mine on the other side of the fieldstone fireplace in which aspen logs crackled and glowed, uttered those four doom-evoking words. Definitely not what you want to hear from the lips of your beloved, especially on the eve of her return home from a sojourn in another part of the world, engaging in who knows what sort of dubious activities along with fellow members of her nefarious sorority.

"We do?" Reluctantly lowering my book to my lap and peering over the frames of my reading glasses, I scanned her face for clues and mentally replayed the events of the past few weeks, searching for any transgressions I might have committed, inadvertently or otherwise. Nope, nothing worthy of either a report or a confession.

"Whatever it is I've done I'm sure I didn't do it," I murmured, just to be on the safe side.

"It's nothing you've done, darling," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "It's something I _need_ you to do."

Right then my internal domestic tranquillity alert level jumped from code green to code blue. We rarely use endearments when addressing each other except when engaging in—or about to embark on—an argument. Judging from her demeanor (composed) and expression (bland) I was pretty sure it was something I wouldn't want to do and resigned myself to the inevitable. Not for nothing have I been this woman's consort these many years.

"What might that be, dear?" I queried cautiously.

My spouse is generally forthright when presenting mundane matters. But when the request is likely to be undesired on my part, she employs the lateral maneuver—distracting me with feints and thrusts until I come to regard the idea, whatever it is, as my own and therefore an agreeable one. You'd think after all this time I'd be wise to her wiles and could see it coming, and you'd be right. You'd also think I'd have accumulated enough wisdom to avoid falling into her trap, but there you'd be wrong. I know what she's up to. I know it's there. I fall into it anyway. I'm hopeless.

"Wouldn't you like to go on a little vacation, honey?" she queried, apropos of nothing.

"Would it expedite this conversation if I were to say 'no' straight off... _honey_?" I responded out of an obligation to put up a token resistance. "Besides, I'm already on vacation." Which was true. I had opted to take off not only the summer term, which was just finishing up at the university, but the fall term about to get underway. When you hold a senior chair, you can do that sort of thing when you just have to have a break from the student hordes.

"Oh come on... just a short one... It'll be fun, _mi amor_."

"No." And I meant it. I had been looking forward to many more months of leisure in the privacy and comfort of home and meant to enjoy every blessed minute of it.

"We really need your help, _mon chéri_." My alert level spiked to code yellow as the 'we' in this context clearly meant the sisterhood and not just the two of us.

I suppose I'd better explain that my helpmeet is a practicing witch... a card-carrying member in good standing and an officer of _La Société Internationale Antique et Honorable des Sorcières Blanches, P.A._ "Professional association" is what they call it these days, the term "coven" being considered old-fashioned and politically incorrect. And it's strictly gender specific... guy witches have their own union. I'm not a guy witch, by the way, but something else entirely—a one-trick pony so to speak. I'm not even all that good at it. Excepting present company—naturally—I generally don't get along with witches all that much. There's a traditional animosity between their order and mine—with mine always getting the nasty end of the shaft... or wand. Whatever.

My lady wife and I never discuss the machinations of Club Witch (my term, not hers), having from the get-go settled on a "don't ask, don't tell" policy in the interest of marital harmony. She had never asked and I had never volunteered for any activity involving the society and I certainly wasn't about to start now.

"No," I said again, rather more firmly, and ostentatiously elevated my book so that it obscured her face. After a moment or so of silence building ominously beyond the pages I was pretending to peruse, I detected a dainty sniffle. Groaning inwardly, I put the book down again and observed the trembling lips and a single glistening tear sliding down one exquisite cheek. She so seldom wept that it unnerved me every time. I was powerless, even as I felt the big guns training in my direction.

"Okay. Let's hear it," I said gloomily.

She outlined the problem and the suggested plan for resolution. Of course it was something I didn't want to do and said so. She blithely ignored my ineffectual protest and continued explaining as I listened with increasing dismay until she stopped, at which point I had ratcheted up to code orange. The apparent conclusion of any such address is my signal to repeat everything back to confirm that, yes dear, I was paying attention and, yes dear, I understand the instructions.

"Let me get this straight... you want me to travel to a strange country and convince a pair of young people I don't know from Adam's housecat that they ought to mate for life and live happily ever after? _No problem!_ I'll hop right on it."

"No need for sarcasm, _bébé_," she retorted primly.

"But, _querida_, aside from the fact that it's not our business to meddle in these people's lives and choreograph their destinies, why can't you or one of your girlfriends take care of it?" I grumbled.

My devoted spouse bestowed on me a look that conveyed faintly exasperated patience such as one might apply toward a beloved but mildly retarded child. "Because, _mein schatz_, you're the one with the degree in psychology and this problem requires expertise and finesse."

"Behavioral theorist, sweetheart... and I haven't done clinicals in over twenty years, as you well know. Out of practice!"

"No matter. It's like riding a bicycle... you never forget. You're perfect for the job. It'll be a piece of cake. Think of it as a condensed power seminar in romance-commitment relativity," she added helpfully.

Well, put that way, I did seem the logical choice. Still didn't want to do it.

"No, I still don't want to do it, _ma fleur_, and there's no good reason why I should... or is there?"

Her face reflected her internal struggle between providing a convincing argument in favor of the proposed mission and her reluctance to express it. The association has rigorous rules about what information the ladies (and I use that term loosely) are allowed to disseminate to ordinary folks or even semi-ordinary ones like myself. It's like being married to an intelligence agency operative—she could tell me, but then she'd have to kill me. As far as I know and in my personal experience, she doesn't read minds or palms or tea leaves, tell fortunes, brew disgusting potions, travel via broomstick or turn recalcitrant husbands into toads. She may be capable of doing these things but I'd really rather not know about it. What she does admit to is an ability to "see" into both the past and the future, though she's not allowed to divulge her findings to lesser beings outside the order, not even her mate. Oh... and cast spells; _that_ I've seen her do.

In any case, I was determined to hold my position on this issue. What I should have been doing was paying closer attention when my internal alert leaped to code red.

"Sorry, sweetpea, but it's just not on. Out of the question. This whole proposition is completely preposterous and I'm not going to do it. Count me out. And that's my final word on the subject!"

**When I came downstairs in the morning** she was already seated in the breakfast nook overlooking the terrace and swimming pool. Her open laptop reposed on the table in front of her, whispering "big fat clue." Bigger clue: my all-time favorite breakfast was already prepared along with coffee just the way I like it, with the morning paper folded nearby. Clue of gargantuan proportions: On the terrace near the swimming pool and clearly visible through the French doors stood what appeared to be a blue one-holer outhouse that I was pretty sure had not been there the day before. An outhouse with a flashing light on top. I didn't have to see or smell the rat to know it was there. A big hairy one. Obviously, she was about to relaunch her campaign.

"No," I said, lifting the cover over the pancakes and reaching for the butter.

She heaved a great sigh.

"Nope. No way." I poured warm maple syrup over my pancakes.

Her nostrils quivered and she drew in her breath for dramatic effect before launching her grenade...

"This is serious. This is an _emergency_. The choices these young people make will ultimately have an impact _on our own family._"

I froze in mid-pour. Now she had my undivided attention. Family is everything and she knows there's nothing I won't do to promote and protect the welfare of our children and grandchildren.

"Meaning what, exactly? Are you're saying that if I don't go something bad will happen?"

"Well, no... it's more like something good won't happen."

"Could you elaborate?"

"Let's just say that, if you don't intervene, something precious will be lost to us forever... to our family's future, that is."

"All I have to do is talk them into committing to each other?"

"Basically, yes."

"So they're not together now?"

"Not exactly."

"How not exactly?"

"You'll see when you get there."

"Sounds like your plans are already pretty far along," I commented.

"Well, yes. We were sure you'd understand and want to help out." She smiled beatifically.

I mulled this over for a minute or two before responding with what I hoped was an appropriate degree of disapproval. "I take it this 'we' I keep hearing implies involvement with Auntie Elayne?"

Elayne Passepartout is head of their neopaganist society (in my estimation a smug and pretentious lot and overful of their own abilities—my lady wife aside, of course) and, incidentally, my wife's maternal aunt. Elayne is a very powerful witch who scares the bejesus out of me; I endeavor to stay as far out of her way as possible. She objected strenuously to our alliance on the grounds that her niece was marrying not only out of her clan but way below her station. We've maintained mutual detestation ever since. For some reason, though, her abhorrence of me personally doesn't extend to our progeny, which she dotes on, having no children of her own. _Go figure._

"It was Elayne's idea."

"What?!" I was genuinely shocked. Elayne wouldn't recommend me for dogcatcher.

My spouse was looking distinctly uncomfortable at this juncture and eyeing me with trepidation.

"Elayne has to be involved to a certain extent and I expect you to be on your good behavior."

Knowing curiosity will overcome caution every time in my case, she turned the laptop around and slid it across to my side of the table, lapsing into professorese: "A concise situation report and biographical sketches of your two main subjects, plus three ancillary persons with whom it will be necessary to interact in order to facilitate your objective. Oh, and photographs for identification purposes."

I scrolled down and studied the photos; they defininitely had a patina of age on them. The clothing and hairstyles were suspiciously familiar. The rat stench intensified.

"When, exactly, were these taken?"

"Ah... a while back." Her evasiveness wasn't lost on me.

"How much of a while back?"

"1974."

"You're kidding, right?"

I snickered until she tossed over a faded Polaroid taken at the height of my antiestablishment pseudoflowerchild period. _Oh crap._ On the day manly good looks, imposing physique and tall stature were being handed out, I was—as usual—standing in the wrong line. So, just like every other average, ordinary joe, I overcompensated by exploiting my sole redeeming feature: I had good hair. _Great_ hair, as a matter of fact... no small vanity in an era where glorious flowing locks on the male of the human species were both admired and celebrated. If a yak had mated with a troll doll and they'd had a love child, it would've had hair like mine—sun-bleached with just enough unruly waves to subvert all efforts to subdue it with a pocket comb.

I allowed myself a fleeting moment of nostalgia. Back then, my rationale for letting my hair run amok was that it made me look taller and sexier (or so I thought) and it bugged the hell out of my parents and college professors. It didn't help that I routinely dressed like a refugee from a band of ragpickers.

Suddenly I understood why I was being shown this particular image.

"You're not serious!"

"As a heart attack," she deadpanned. "To gain their acceptance, you'll have to blend in."

The unwelcome realization swept over me of what else this gig was going to entail. If this "problem" didn't exist in the here and now but was in fact an anomaly in the time-space continuum that occurred (or will occur or might occur) thirty-six years ago, that meant time traveling. I really, really hate time traveling. It wreaks havoc with my innards that no amount of Dramamine can forestall.

"You know how much I hate time travel," I whimpered.

"Don't whine, dear. It's unbecoming. And it's only thirty-six years—a relatively minor temporal displacement," she responded, somewhat tetchily.

I launched a feeble counterattack. "If as you say it's an 'historic' event, doesn't that mean their story's already written?"

"T'aint necessarily so..." my wife countered primly, "History is fluid, you know... it can go forward and backward along parallel paths. We feel that a timely intervention will circumvent unfortunate decisions and prevent an adverse effect on history."

"You mean if they drift apart and choose different mates?"

"Exactly."

"So you're saying if they didn't... don't... get together and found a dynasty, civilization as we know it will cease to exist?"

"No... of course not. You're being facetious. It will merely flow along another course, but humanity will be a tiny bit poorer for the absence of the family they might have generated," she intoned unctuously.

We locked eyes and wills for a few moments more. She could, of course, _make_ me go... I knew that, and she knew I knew it. But I also knew without a doubt that she would never use her superior abilities to force me against my will. The bond of absolute trust between us is just that... absolute. We couldn't have stayed together all this time without that. I made my decision.

"I'll do it but I'd really like to know what this has to do with _our_ family."

"All I can tell is that it involves your favorite grandson and their eldest granddaughter... if there _is_ one."

"I have no favorite grandson... _all_ my grandchildren are precious," I lied judiciously.

"You forget to whom you lie. And in any case, he's mine as well. But if you tell anyone I said so, it's Toadsville for you," she warned.

"I see. Is that it?"

"That's all you're getting," she said firmly. As in, not for me to question the whys.

"Can Squirrel go, too?"

"I don't know if that's such a good idea. Every time you let him out he gets you in trouble."

I whined. "But I might need him."

"Oh, all right. But don't be coming home with another tattoo."

"Good grief, woman! It's _not _a tat. It was just an error in judgment a long time ago... and it was just the one! Get over it. Can we get back to the subject?"

"Certainly. Questions?"

"How much time do I have?"

"One week."

"Excuse me? One week?!" I squawked. "Are you kidding?"

"Nope. Sorry. If the fix isn't in by the girl's twenty-first birthday party the opportunity will be lost."

"One week!" I moaned. "One week to achieve what they've failed to accomplish by themselves in three years!"

We discussed the bones of the mission with mounting annoyance on my part as a few other minor omissions on her part were gradually unveiled...

As previously mentioned, I do possess a modest ability of my own. But what she was suggesting meant venturing into territory I'd never tried before. I presented my reservations.

"Oh, _that_... I'll take care of that," she blithely declared. _Wonderful._

And, I had to go _right__now_ as the anomaly would be happening (or did happen or might happen) in exactly eight days... that is, eight days from thirty-six years ago today. Confusing, I know, but there you have it.

I had not, at this point, inquired as to _where_ I was going or _how_ I was going to get there but suspected it might have something to do with that mysterious blue outhouse on my terrace. While finishing breakfast I sped-read and committed to memory the text portions. _Great. A lonesome loser, a lost soul, the class clown and and a punchdrunk old man._

Another objection occurred: "Wait just a minute! Am I going back as _me_... or as _him?"_ Pointing to the Polaroid. "Will I still know everything I know now?" _Hah! Let her explain away that one!_

But explain it she did. "No worries, _liebchen_," she soothed. "We researched this thoroughly. You'll be both... think of it as having a bifurcated persona. You'll be enjoying all the physiology, features and faculties of the twenty-three-year-old version of you, but you'll retain all your current memories and knowledge. You probably won't even notice when you're toggling between personalities."

Next thing I knew, I was being propelled out the French doors onto the terrace and toward the 'conveyance' that was going to take me where I needed to go. She had already arranged a backpack and this she handed over to me along with a small blue feather and explicit instructions for its use. She wished me luck, kissed me goodbye and shoved me through the door.

**Field Journal: Sunday, September 1, 1974 • 8:45am**

**Travel notes:** The captain ("just call me Doctor") of this extraordinary vessel announced he had just taken over operations and this was his first run. The flight—if it can be called such—was short and uneventful aside from a bit of wheezing, rumbling and vibration. Took care of the changeover with unsolicited advice from Captain Doctor who claims extensive experience in this matter. Stayed mainly in the lavatory, throwing up. Disembarked just after sunrise. Barfed in some bushes and set off to scope out the terrain.

**General observations: ** So here I am, on the backside of nowhere in Yorkshire, England. No internet, no laptop, no smartphone, no digital camera—they wouldn't work anyway as they haven't been invented yet. Have only this crappy notebook, a felt marker and a ball-point pen.

My area of operations centers on this "Follyfoot" farm, maintained as a refuge for retired/rescued horses, and its surrounds. There are horses grazing in a meadow adjoining a grove of trees with an inviting little hidden lake and, in the distance, a cluster of stone buildings.

Except for absence of open range in the immediate vicinity, the countryside here is very much like home—scenic, if mainly agricultural. Pasturage interspersed with cultivated fields and grand sweeping vistas over rolling hills. Not much forest but enough to hide in if necessary. Basic commerce conducted in Tockwith, a ville located nearby.

**Assessments from professional POV: **Both primaries present with attachment disorders, albeit due to entirely unrelated childhood circumstances. Having only just recently become recognized as separate discipline in field, pediatric psychology won't address attachment theory, abandonment issues and separation anxiety until something like 15 to 20 years from now so can personally do nothing to ameliorate that particular brand of damage. Only viable alternative here is lead them toward open communications re feelings toward each other.

**About Steve Ross:** Appalling formative years involving parental abandonment, possible physical abuse, foster care, orphanage, reformatory, homelessness. Survival mechanisms consist of anger, denial and regression to introverted state. Exhibits confrontational and aggressive behavior when distressed, challenged or thwarted. Inadequate communicative skills. Little formal education. (Thirty years from now, psyche science will be associating dysfunctional childhoods with criminal behavior in adults.) On the plus side: Bright and a quick study; compassionate and kind to underdogs.

**About Dora Maddocks: **Absentee parents—overclassed, overprivileged, completely self-absorbed with sociopolitical status. Child regarded as excess baggage and relegated to surrogate care since infancy. Comprehensive but incomplete boarding/finishing school education. Difficulty maintaining emotional balance, being either overly withdrawn or overwrought in turn. Resistant to changes in personal environment. Communication skills inhibited by shyness. On the plus side: Also quite intelligent and has developed a modicum of self-confidence, improved coping skills and formulated goals since assuming responsibility for farm.

**The problem:** He's prevented from pressing suit romantically due to fear of rejection and belief in class incompatibility. Also, lacking role models has no clue as to forming commitment. She can't overcome cultural inhibitions about making first overture (feminist movement and women's liberation just now getting underway here). Both seriously challenged re tactile response, having limited experience with touching, handholding, hugging, kissing-much less any more involved physical intimacy. Relationship stalemated and neither one willing to risk disturbing status quo.

**Additional notes:** Very little detailed information on three ancillary subjects. Don't know to what extent or in what capacity these are involved with primaries. Will have to play by ear.

**Plans:** Effect initial encounter with primary subjects on neutral ground. Assess current psyche/emotional status of both in comparison with case study analyses. Concoct plausible raison d'être. Gain access to residential premises if possible.

**Goals:** First, get their attention and formulate initial impression.

**Technical issues:** SHE Who Holds The Power assured me that the age regression will hold as long as necessary. I don't know as I've never tried it before. And it's been a long time since I let Squirrel out to play. There wasn't a mirror in the onboard restroom so I don't know yet how the transition worked out, cosmetically speaking. I don't feel too much different yet—maybe a little less creaky—but assuming my head will be requiring a period of adjustment to reinhabiting a body it hasn't occupied in 36 years.

**Note to self:** Now that that's out of the way, where's a Starbucks when you need a caffeine boost? Oh wait... Starbucks won't get here until 1998. Bummer.

SHE Who Must Be Obeyed insisted I keep a feather on my person at all times—something to do with the spell but I know better than to ask for specifics. Some things you're better off not knowing about. Doesn't have to be this particular feather... any one will do.

_How did I let myself get talked into this?_ Because... "Women are by and large much stronger than men. If not physically, then in every other possible way." Blatantly plagiarized from John Paul Schultz on FaceBook but ain't it the truth?

Got my towel... got my feather... good to go.

**PART TWO • SUNDAY**

CHAPTER 2:_** "Life's too short to drink cheap wine or ride an ugly horse"**_• Proverb

"**Steve!" Dora Maddocks' voice echoed down the staircase.** "Steve! Would you come up here for a moment?"

Already fidgeting at the breakfast table on this Sunday morning and waiting for Slugger Jones to start dishing up, Ron Stryker gave Steve Ross an exaggerated wink. "Hoick! Her Ladyship summons her faithful footman!"

The three young people had just finished mucking out the stables when Dora had tripped over a rake Ron had carelessly left lying on the ground and gone sprawling into the dung heap. Usually they only managed a quick hand-washing before eating, but Dora had required more thorough restoration to a hygienic state and a complete change of clothing. As punishment for this health and safety violation, Slugger was now making them wait for their breakfast until the girl could join them.

"Steve?"

Steve got up, giving Ron an annoyed look, and walked to the foot of the staircase. "What is it?" he called up.

"Just come up... please!"

Ron pulled a face and Slugger raised an eyebrow as if to say 'get on with it'. Steve went up the stairs knowing he wouldn't hear the end of this for days. Even though he and Ron both were now living in the farmhouse and occupying bedrooms on the same floor as the two female residents, he still experienced moments of unease at being alone upstairs with either of the girls.

The original farmhouse had been a two-story rectangular structure built on a north-south axis, and at some point a matching rectangle had been added perpendicular to the southern aspect. At the top of the stairs, immediately to the right, a narrow corridor served two bedrooms at the north end of the farmhouse. Initially this had been the nursery wing. Nowadays Steve and Ron occupied this end of the second floor. To the left, a wider central hallway extended past linen and airing cupboards, a storage closet, Dora's former bedroom—with its single window facing out over the courtyard and beyond that the stableyard—and another small bedroom that had recently been transformed into a modern bathroom. This hallway concluded with doors to the east and west bedrooms—spacious sunlit chambers with multiple windows, fireplaces, and magnificent views of the surrounding countryside. Dora and Hazel Donnelly, the other female resident, inhabited these.

Steve ventured as far Dora's open door and cautiously peered around the frame. "Dora?"

To his relief she was fully dressed and looking out an opened window, not turning around as he stood fidgeting in the doorway. "Look," she commanded. When he still hadn't moved she finally turned her head. "Oh for heaven's sake, stop acting the dolt and come in here. You can't see from over there."

He sidled over next to her and obediently followed her index finger to the bottom of the east pasture which lay in a declivity below the earth dam impounding the lake. It couldn't be seen from the ground floor but was visible in its entirety from the second.

"Out there... There's a strange horse in with ours. See it? A yellow one?"

Steve squinted, picking out from among the familiar colors and patterns one that didn't belong... a somewhat mustardy dun. "Looks more like a pony to me."

"Pony, horse... whatever. It certainly wasn't there earlier when we put the others out this morning," she said.

Taking Dora lightly by the elbow, Steve steered her away from the window toward the door. "Breakfast first, then we'll investigate, okay?"

Back downstairs and seated at the table, Dora was totally oblivious to Ron's and Slugger's carryings-on and the murderous looks Steve was shooting back in return. As usual with Dora, her mind was totally focused on a New Horse. "Someone must have let it in as soon as we turned our backs..."

"Could be," Steve mumbled through a mouthful of toast and jam.

"Let what where?" Ron asked, spearing the last sausage.

"Or it could have jumped the fence from the road..." She drummed her fingers on the tabletop.

"I doubt that, Dora. That fence is more than a pony could manage."

"What are you two talking about?" Ron asked loudly. He hated being left out.

"No need to shout, Ron," Dora admonished, "It's only a strange pony that's got in with ours. We're going to go have a look at it." She started to get up only to have Slugger push her back down firmly with a hand on the shoulder.

"Oh no yer not, missy," he declared, "not until you clean yer plate. That goes for you, too." He shook his finger at Steve, who had also half risen from his chair.

Dora gave Slugger a baleful look and proceeded to cram away her breakfast as speedily as possible. Her etiquette instructor at her old finishing school would have fainted dead away. She and Steve stood up hastily, as did Ron.

"And just where do you think yer goin'?" Slugger stood with hands on hips, giving Ron the gimlet eye. "You got feed and supplies to fetch from the village..."

**A mild breeze shepherded cotton-puff clouds above** and the bright sun had almost burned off the morning dew as Steve and Dora strode together toward the east pasture. Keeping her profile in his peripheral vision, Steve reviewed the intricacies of their shared three-year history. They'd first met under adversarial conditions and their initial exchange had been argumentative, but the visceral attraction had been immediate and, he believed, mutual. Of course, he'd been perfectly free to admire and desire the lovely Miss Maddocks in his private fantasy world... but he'd entertained no illusions of striking up any sort of association with a girl not only stratospherically higher in class but the niece of his employer. They had settled into a pattern of playful friendship that continued until a personal crisis involving his long-absent mother had called him away from the farm.

Whether that was to be a temporary absence or a permanent remove, Steve had no way of knowing at the time. It wasn't until the day he left that he became fully aware that Dora's feelings for him were far more than platonic. Her tears and anguished pleas caught him offguard and there was no time to examine it or his own unfamiliar emotional response. He'd reacted by bidding her farewell with a forced offhandedness he certainly wasn't experiencing.

For ten long months Steven Ross labored in an attempt to rescue his wayward mother from her dissipated lifestyle. During that time he deliberately avoided any communication with the residents of Follyfoot and concentrated on his mission. He reminded himself every day that, really, there was nothing binding him to the farm, that he didn't love Dora Maddocks, and that he meant nothing to her. But he couldn't stop thinking of her and her desolate face at the gate.

All his efforts to rehabilitate Kathy Ross proved futile in the end. Rejected once again, he'd admitted defeat and gone to his only other living relatives—his maternal grandmother and his mother's sister—only to find that the old lady had died, the property sold and the aunt moved away, leaving no forwarding address. Out of options and with no other place to go, he'd returned to Follyfoot, fearing what changes might have transpired and unsure of the welcome he might—or might not—receive. Surely during his absence Dora would have turned her attentions elsewhere, or there would be someone new occupying his loft and no room for him.

His fears had proven unfounded. Everything was exactly as he'd left it, other than a few new old horses replacing those who had gone on to their rewards. Everyone seemed pleased to see him. Dora had flown to him with radiant happiness but stopped short of a physical embrace. He was home... and on the surface it was as if he'd never left.

Two subtle differences gradually revealed themselves to Steve during his first week back: Firstly, Dora's ardor hadn't ebbed one whit... was, in fact, even more openly and disconcerting on display... a sigh here, a fleeting touch there, a delicate nuance of speech, a dreamy glance from under lowered lashes. He ignored it as best he could for as long as he could. It wasn't that he didn't _want_ to return her affection... it was that he _couldn't_.

The second difference lay in himself: During the months away, trying and failing to establish a normal relationship with the one person who should have been closest to him, Steve's already guarded heart had acquired yet another layer of armor, tempered by disappointment. All the good that had come to him in the protective environment of Follyfoot had come undone; he would have to start over. It took him a while to figure this out and even longer to decide how he would have to respond if and when Dora made an overt move in his direction either verbally or physically.

That time had arrived on a brilliant August afternoon, when they'd pulled up to give their horses a breather beside the hidden lake in the woods. In a short but momentous conversation, Dora had offered up her devotion and Steve had not so much declined this gift as evaded it with protestations of the fragility of love. Neither party had come away satisfied but from then on had managed to observe a non-threatening distance from each other.

Though lacking formal education, in sharp contrast to Dora's background of expensive schooling, Steve was neither ignorant nor stupid. He was all too aware of the psychological barriers in his mind and understood how they had come about, and that he and she, despite disparate upbringings, shared identical intimacy issues. And so they continued to rub along together, month after month... cognizant of yet refusing to openly acknowledge the bond that existed between them. He understood that something would have to change eventually, but harbored a paralytic fear of what that would mean for them... for him.

Almost a year later, the strain of maintaining the we're-just-friends fiction had produced a second confrontation that almost severed their relationship for good and all. They'd managed to get past that, too, but the illness and subsequent death of Dora's uncle had shifted the balance of power... physically, psychologically and emotionally. Dora had always been reactive rather than proactive. With the responsibility of running the farm thrust upon her, though, she'd become too preoccupied to expend much energy in romantic aspirations and the affair that wasn't had been relegated to a back burner. If any such feelings still existed, she masked them efficiently behind a façade of reserve.

Steve, on the other hand, had always concealed his paranoia beneath a carapace of bravado. There had never been a time in his life when he'd felt entirely safe and secure in his ability to control a situation. Tough talk and an aggressive stance had always been his only weapons and shields against uncertainty. For too long he'd assumed that eventually—once he overcame his insecurities—he would achieve a level of self-confidence that would enable him to deliver all that Dora wanted of him, and that she would still be willing to receive it. _Eventually_ had not yet arrived and his emotional advantage over her had slipped away. Now, having lost assurance that Dora still held any affection for him, he was adrift in a sea of doubt and confusion. Loss of control—whether over events or other peoples' actions or his own—was anathema to Steve, yet he couldn't seem to help himself, prevent himself from flying into tantrums over petty grievances or making intemperate remarks. And, he knew, the tendency was worsening. He shook himself back to the present.

How might Dora react if he simply reached over and took her hand? _But if I do that, even such a small gesture of affection, then she'll expect more... and I can't give her more... not yet. _In any case, he thought —erroneously—the status of their relationship was probably the last thing on her mind at the moment.

**Dora had been thinking as well, and not entirely about the mysterious pony** in the pasture. Steve was rarely absent from her thoughts and seldom out of her presence more than a few hours. At the time of their coincidental arrival at Follyfoot, she had been so unhappy, without direction or goal and yielding willy nilly to the desires and demands of her parents and other even less understanding adults. He had been defensive and bristling with angry resentment at the world and everything in it, as prickly as a hedgehog. Both had found sanctuary on the small rundown farm, and a common purpose there.

Dora reflected on how much the two of them had changed in the past three years. Basically, Steve remained the pessimist, always seeing the dark cloud behind the silver lining, but his cynicism toward the world at large had softened considerably and his periodic fits of moody withdrawal were fewer and farther between. Dora had discovered in herself a sense of optimism and gumption she'd never even known she possessed. Her self-confidence contined to expand exponentially, but in such minute increments that the ability to challenge and overcome cultural inhibitions wasn't yet within her grasp.

Only once had the nature of their relationship been discussed openly; that is, he had talked and she had listened. Steve had enumerated all the reasons why—in his estimation—they couldn't be more than friends. She had demurred but he had brushed her off, apparently assuming the issue had been resolved on the basis of his opinions alone. From Dora's point of view, nothing had been resolved—not then and not now. _Why does it have to be so difficult? Why can't we just talk and sort out our feelings? Everyone else manages to do it, arrive at compromises and understandings and get on with their lives. Are there really such beings as guardian angels or some other entities who guide our life choices and protect us from the bad ones? If so, where is mine? And where is his?_

Steve opened the pasture gate, allowing Dora to pass through and closing it behind them. The east pasture had been left fallow for many months so that the grass could replenish itself, which it had done with a vengeance. Lush, green and dotted with wildflowers, it was belly-high to the horses and all that could be seen of the donkeys and ponies were withers and rumps. The reason the animals were there now was that Steve had discovered a section of damaged fencing in the larger west pasture, which he and Ron were going to be repairing later that day. Horses being gregarious creatures by nature, the small herd grazed at the far end in a loose cluster, the newcomer among them. It was hard going for the two humans on foot and it took some minutes for them to traverse the length of the field.

The Follyfoot band looked up as their humans approached but quickly lost interest, having already exchanged morning greetings with this pair only an hour or so previous. Nothing new to investigate and too early for treats. They all dropped their heads and went about their business. All except for the dun pony, which stood there near side on to them with its head turned in their direction, calmly watching them and occasionally swishing its whiskbroom tail. Even from a distance it could be seen to have unnaturally pale eyes. As they drew closer, they could see the animal was larger than they'd originally thought... more horse-sized than it appeared from a distance.

It was a patently unattractive creature with abysmal conformation, roughly fourteen hands—maybe fifteen at most. Somewhere between eight and nine hundred pounds, Steve judged, and of parentage so inconclusive that even its specie was doubtful. Its hindquarters appeared to have been borrowed from another, much taller horse. Its coloring was more on the order of dirty straw than dun.

Steve and Dora halted when they were about thirty feet away, leery of spooking what was quite possibly the most ill-favored equine either one of them had ever beheld in their lives.

"Best give him a moment to size us up before we get closer," Steve whispered. For once Dora agreed and stayed put, moving forward cautiously only when Steve gave her the go-ahead.

At twenty feet away they stopped again, taking in details that were now more apparent. It still hadn't moved and seemed to be assessing them with equal interest, twitching stubby ears, one of which canted off at a bizarre angle.

Steve whistled. "That's got to be the ugliest horse I've ever seen."

"Oh, Steve... don't be so uncharitable. It's not his fault he's so... so, uh... unappealing," she finished lamely.

"If it wasn't a stallion I'd call it a real-life nightmare. It's so ugly it should have been put down at birth," Steve teased.

"Oh Steve!"

Then he kicked himself in the behind, mentally, for egging her on. When it came to horses, Dora had no sense of humor whatsoever and the life of every single one was a _cause célèbre_ in her book.

"Look, Steve... how nicely he's waiting for us to come to him." Dora extracted a carrot chunk from a pocket, offering it on the flat of her palm as she stealthily crept forward. When she had got close enough, the horse delicately extended its neck and lipped the treat from her after an appreciative sniff. "Oh... he's got blue eyes... no, not blue... they're green!"

Delighted, she began stroking the horse's Roman nose, immediately noticing that the underlying skin was neither pink nor dark or even mottled but more of a light tan similar to her own forearms. Her critical eyes took in with disapproval the scruffy coat that had obviously not enjoyed the attentions of a currycomb in quite some time, and the floppy burr-entangled mane that could have done with a good combing and a trim. Steve, meanwhile, had circled completely around them and came to rest beside Dora.

"How old do you think he is, Steve?"

"Let's have a look, shall we. Easy, boy..." The horse was amenable to having its teeth inspected. "Around three, I'd say."

Steve moved around Dora and leaned against the horse's left shoulder, angling his knee behind the leg to get the animal to shift its stance so that Steve could lift its foot. But before he could bend down to grasp the foreleg, the horse obligingly raised its own foot and... Steve squawked, jumping back in shock.

"Steve! What is it? What's wrong?" Standing to the offside, Dora hadn't seen what he had: substantial toes where a compact hoof should have been. He rubbed his face in disbelief.

"Steve? Are you alright?" Dora was regarding him with concern now.

"Nothing... it's nothing. I'm fine. It's just... for a second there... I thought I saw toes."

Dora looked askance and then started chuckling. "Oh go on with you!" Then, to the horse but loud enough for Steve to hear, "I suppose you must be Bucephalus, then."

"Boo who?" Steve asked, confused.

"Bucephalus was Alexander the Great's horse. Supposedly he had toes."

"Learned that in finishing school, did you, girl?" Steve sneered, then at her look of reproach immediately regretted having spoken. It wasn't her fault that she had benefitted from an upperclass education while his had been rudely interrupted before completion.

"I'm sorry."

She sighed. It had become a bad habit with them; one would deride the other, swiftly following up with a sincere apology. Five minutes later it would happen again. "Go on and check his feet, then, if you're going to. We can't stand out here all day. There's work to be done, you know."

"As you wish, your ladyship." _Oh no, not again. Another mental head slap._ Also not Dora's fault that circumstance had resulted in Steve's becoming her employee instead of just a fellow stablehand. He approached the horse once more, this time gingerly toeing aside grass with his boot. He looked down to observe a perfectly normal hoof. He merely touched the animal on the knee and the foot was promptly lifted for inspection... and held there. Same with the other three. Something definitely wasn't right here.

As Dora carried on her one-sided discourse with the horse while emptying her pockets of carrot nibbles, Steve took a few paces backward and narrowed his eyes to calculating slits as he began mentally cataloging traits and facts that weren't adding up. The animal possessed powerfully muscled hindquarters and shoulders and sturdy legs and, other than being a victim of negligent grooming, appeared to be in good health, well-fed and showing no signs of abuse.

Steve was puzzled by what looked like a brand high up on the long arch of the neck, but lacking the normal scar tissue that hot-iron branding creates and visible only as a pattern of white hairs amongst the dun—a series of odd angles and bars that meant nothing to Steve. Aside from that and an assortment of the usual minor scars one would expect to find on any horse that spent the majority of its life in the field, there wasn't a single blemish or gallmark attributable to harness or restraints of any kind. And it had a mouth like velvet. Was it possible, Steve wondered privately, that this animal had never been saddlebroken even though it obviously was accustomed to being handled?

"Have a look at this, will you?"

Dora stepped around to look where Steve pointed. "What is it, do you think? It's not a tattoo... but it doesn't look like a brand, either."

"I have no idea... but it's certainly an identification mark of some kind. I've never seen anything like it. We can't just leave him out here, Steve... he might be valuable. Someone might come along and think we've stolen him."

"Who in their right mind would steal this... nag?" Steve hooted.

"Still... we can't risk him causing trouble... I don't suppose you thought to bring a halter and lead?"

"I don't suppose you thought to, either?" he shot back, adding, "Sorry. We both should have thought of that. I'll get a halter off one of the others."

Coming back with the borrowed halter, Steve attempted to put it on and the horse moved its head. It didn't shy away or jerk, but repeatedly turned its ungainly head one way and the other just far enough to prevent the halter from going past its nose.

"It's no use, Dora. He's not having it. We'll just have to let him go for now."

"But we have to do _something_," Dora insisted.

"I'll get Slugger to ring up the constable and the feed store to see if anyone's posted a notice or made enquiries about a missing horse."

But as they stood there discussing their plan, the horse evidently had one of its own. Abruptly moving away from them, it trotted toward the nearest stretch of fence and without gaining momentum simply floated over the obstacle with inches to spare before vanishing into the woods beyond.

Steve and Dora just stood there with their mouths gaping open in astonishment.

"Did you see that?" Steve finally choked out.

"I'm standing right here... of course I did."

They turned to look at each other in disbelief. After a few moments, Dora shook her head and held her palms out. "That's that, then. But we should report it anyway." She started walking back across the pasture, Steve at her side.

At the gate, Steve spoke again. "Look, there's really no need for you to help with the fence, with two of us on the job. Anyway, it's not work for a girl. Why don't you and Copper go for a nice long ride instead?"

Dora opened her mouth to object to being dismissed from the work crew then thought better of it. She knew she could work as long and hard as either of the boys, but in all honesty she'd really prefer spending a few quiet hours on the bridle path with Copper.

"If you're sure?"

"I'll just go and get him for you. Stay right where you are."

**Copper wasn't much interested in leaving behind** the verdant pasture and his cronies contentedly grazing in it, but he yielded to Steve's firm grip on his halter and came along peaceably enough while Dora managed the gate. Without speaking, they proceeded up the slope to the track leading to the stables, through two more gates and into the yard.

"I have a bad feeling about that animal," Steve stated uneasily, catching up a lead fastened to a tie post and clipping it to Copper's halter.

Dora paused and cocked her her head at him, pursing her lips. "Just because he's so unattractive? That's unfair. Seems perfectly nice to me. Gentle, well-behaved... a little odd, perhaps. Those eyes are a bit disconcerting, aren't they? I've never seen eyes that color on a horse before and..."

"Dora..." Steve interrupted, "it isn't just the eyes, is it? There isn't a single mark to show he's ever worn a saddle... or bit and bridle. His feet are properly trimmed but he hasn't been shod in months, if ever. No nail holes, no rasp marks. Do you understand what that means?"

Dora shrugged. "So what? Maybe he's a New Forest pony that was lost during transport?"

Steve shook his head. "No, Dora. He's too tall and anyway he would have been culled as a colt just on the basis of eye and coat color."

"Then perhaps he's a liberty horse escaped from a circus," she retorted impatiently, "It doesn't really matter how he got in our pasture. He's not there now and someone must be looking for him, surely."

"You're too trusting, girl. One of these days you'll find yourself in real trouble."

"And you're always so suspicious!" Another one of their ongoing disagreements. She trusted everyone and everything; he trusted no one and nothing.

"If he shows up again, we'll just have to try harder to catch him. We can put him in Bartleby's box until his owner is located."

Dora stalked away in a huff, as if the whole episode had been Steve's fault. He watched her retreating backside with both amusement and frustration as she headed toward the tackroom. Bartleby had succumbed to old age only a week ago and Steve and Ron had made bets with each other as to how many days would elapse before their Dora would install a new resident, as she always managed to do.

Having come outside to empty a mop bucket, Slugger had overheard most of the exchange. He shook his head. "Ticked her off again, have you?"

Steve nodded with a grimace. "Doesn't take much these days." He went on to describe the animal, emphasizing its ugliness and its spectacular leap over the fence.

"I can't seem to do anything right lately... seems like she's always upset with me about one thing or another. Something's wrong but I don't know what. Do you?"

"Do I know, he asks!" Slugger rolled his eyes. He had a fairly good idea about what was eating Dora... but it wasn't his place to interfere and he sensed that the two young people wouldn't appreciate any advice from an old man. No, this was something they would have to sort out for themselves. Trouble was, they'd already had three years to sort out a relationship which obviously wasn't moving ahead on its present course.

The two men looked at each other and shrugged.

"Women!" Steve muttered.

"God bless 'em!" the other answered.

Slugger went back in the house and Steve headed for the lumber pile to begin selecting replacement fence boards. When Dora returned, he stopped and came to stand beside her as she saddled up, his thumbs hooked in his pockets. She gave the girth once last tug and pulled the stirrups down. Declining his offer of a leg up, she reminded Steve about making enquiries and reporting a horse running loose. Steve closed the gate behind her as she posted off and went back to assembling the materials and tools he and Ron would need for the fence job.

An hour passed before Ron returned from the village and Steve went to help him and Slugger unload the Rover. He hardly spoke and was throwing the sacks down with unnecessary force when the older man grabbed his arm. "You bust 'em and you'll have a right mess to clean up!"

"Where's that horse, then?" Ron looked eagerly around the empty yard.

Steve shrugged. "We tried to bring it in but it flew over the fence like a bird and ran off."

Ron scoffed. "Get away!"

"Well it did. Dora and I both saw it."

"What sort of horse was it?"

"No idea. A small dun stallion, practically a pony—in any case, about three years old."

"A stallion... in _our_ stables? There's trouble!" Ron scratched his ear as a crafty look came over his face. "Jumper like that must be worth a mint. If nobody claims him maybe we could..."

"Forget it, mate. It's also the ugliest horse I've ever seen in my life. No self-respecting competitor would be caught dead riding him; he'd be laughed out of the ring."

"You know... we could get us a couple of decent brood mares and..."

"I said forget it. He's not ours and we're not in the breeding business, in case you've forgotten. We're in the horse rest home business and now have all these other ones to school as well. And not enough hands to cope with what we've got." Steve was now loading boards onto the cargo deck of the ancient LandRover.

"But..."

"Steve's right. We can't take on any more mouths to feed or muck out after until we get some help," Slugger cut in. "So get back to work. That fence ain't gonna fix itself. When yer done loadin', come in and get yer lunch."

Ron muttered something _sotto voce_ about bossy old men but went off to retrieve the toolbox. Slugger and Steve gave each other a knowing look, aware that any time Ron Stryker got a new moneymaking scheme lodged in his mind he wouldn't be giving it up that easily.

**Field Journal: Sunday, September 1, 1974 • 12:30pm**

**Atmospheric conditions:** Continued mild but rain coming on later in the day.

**Immediate location:** What appears to be a bridle path looping around that little lake in the woods.

**Initial contact:** My subjects both seem like perfectly ordinary young people who know each other well enough to peck at each other freely, but not like boyfriend/girlfriend. No open displays of affection.

For all that he's quick to take in physical details, Steve seems to rely too much on first impressions and is very judgmental of appearances. IMHO, won't easily be persuaded to set aside preconceptions long enough to consider other POVs and will probably be very difficult to influence.

A thoughtful, sympathetic soul, this Dora—more concerned with immediate rectification of undesirable conditions or situations (people or animals) than with what she's actually seeing. Doesn't stop to consider possible side effects or consequences of interference. Basically good natured. Should be fairly easy to win over.

**Equine profiles:**: Permanent residents are mostly geriatrics with varying degrees of disability and fascinating if sad personal histories. Two or three peers in terms of age. They are aware I'm not one of them but surprisingly tolerant.

**Plan: **Meet with each subject in isolated scenario. Assess ability to deal with unknown quantities and abstract theories. Gauge reactions when presented with challenges. Find common ground to open up dialogue.

**Technical issue:** Anatomical glitch encountered. My bad. But the look on Steve's face was worth it... ROFL! Letting Squirrel out seemed like a good idea but was very taxing physically on account of being out of practice. SHE may have had a point. I could blame his unfortunate appearance on my rusty skills... but, truth is, I never could get him quite right.

**Note to self:** Alrighty then... time to get down to business. But first, go for a swim. Get in the mindset. Stay cool!

CHAPTER 3:_** "Good things happen when you meet strangers" **_• Yo-Yo Ma

**Having been encouraged to gallop off his initial high spirits,** Copper was now content to proceed at a leisurely walk on a loose rein in the general direction of home. Dora turned him off the farm track and onto the path meandering just inside the periphery of what Ron jokingly referred to as FollyWood, ten acres of woodland that had been miraculously preserved from agriculturization and wartime deforestation. Roughly triangular in shape, the wood was comprised mostly of mature specimens of oak, whitethorn and ash providing a moderate canopy over a groundcover of shade-tolerant shrubs and bushes. The southern and eastern legs of the triangle marked the boundary fences with two neighboring farms. From its apex Follyfoot land extended north toward the county road. At this northernmost point the trail looped around a jewel of a tiny hidden pond before rejoining the farm track on the way back to the stable. Along the eastern leg, dense undergrowth on either side and intertwining branches above formed a tunnel through which coins of sunlight dappled the path, lending a subaqueous glow to the shadowy dimness.

With Copper more or less on autopilot, Dora's mind churned with concerns: the ongoing work on the farmhouse and stables and what next needed attention; the ever-decreasing number of retired and rescued equine residents; the escalating number of young, fit horses being consigned to them for schooling; the dearth of badly needed stable attendants; her upcoming twenty-first birthday, upon which she would gain access to the trust fund her grandmother had established for her years ago; and always... always... what to do about Steve.

What had initially begun as girlish infatuation three years ago had solidified into as yet unrequited love for the man. She knew he cared for her... he had once even said he couldn't imagine his days without her presence in them. On the basis of that alone, she had relented on her determination last year to send him on his way and out of her life, after she had outright told him he had to leave. He had asked her to "bear with him." And what then? Had she expected their relationship to start moving forward, beyond mere friendship, to something more formal with more of a traditional expectation? Of course she had. But that hadn't happened.

The past year had brought significant changes to Follyfoot, the catalyst being the not unexpected death after a lengthy illness of Dora's uncle and mentor, Colonel Geoffrey Maddocks, leaving her sole heir to his entire estate aside from substantial bequests on behalf of Slugger, Steve, Ron and Hazel. The Colonel's guardianship of Dora's person had expired at her eighteenth birthday, but that of her trust funds remained in the hands of the Maddocks family's solicitors until she turned twenty-one. The Colonel had left detailed instructions as to disbursement of funds for the continued maintenance of Follyfoot Farm and operation of Hollin Hall, should Dora choose to occupy the mansion. She had not, and the stately residence had been closed up until she reached her majority and could decide what to do with it. Other accommodations had been arranged according to the Colonel's wishes and most of them had now been fulfilled.

Mr. Charles Burnham, the Colonel's solicitor and personal friend, had taken Dora in hand and organized all that needed to be done. A financial manager and accountant had been recommended and retained. The farm had been incorporated as a horse training business which though barely breaking even provided each of the residents a modest but dependable stipend. Separate household and farm accounts had been established; Dora and Steve between them still made decisions regarding purchases of supplies and equipment and hiring of incidental help, and Slugger was still in charge of household expenses, but all paperwork was now turned over to the accountant for monthly settlement.

A reliable contractor had been engaged to begin renovations to the venerable stone farmhouse, beginning with the upper story. Ron had become a permanent resident when his father had remarried and the bride, a strident and disagreeable woman, had made it quite clear that her plans for her new domain did not include having a grown stepson lurking about. Getting Steve to give up his loft over the stables had been like pulling hens' teeth. Cold in the winter, hot in the summer, damp or dusty according to the season, it had nonetheless been home to him for three years... the only real home he'd ever had. He'd only lately come around to agreeing that the space could be put to better use as a dormitory for future stablehands once it was fixed up. He, too, now lived in the house. Slugger was temporarily sleeping in Dora's old room until refurbishment of his own downstairs bedroom was completed.

At first Dora had been so overwhelmed by the rapid pace of change swirling around her that she had wanted to hide in a closet... or run to a grownup for shelter. But Uncle Geoffrey wasn't there anymore and her own parents were... well, as they had always been—unavailable and for the most part indifferent. Dora had had to grow up very quickly. Having an abundance of funds at one's disposable didn't always make one's life happier, she reflected ruefully... easier, perhaps, but not happier. Steve was less stressed, now that he was relieved of constantly worrying over where the money was coming from to run the farm... but his attitude toward their relationship had not improved one iota. If anything, he had lately become even more remote and she didn't know why.

In some respects life proceeded no differently than it had before: Stalls still had to be mucked out and animals fed, watered, trained and looked after every day. Arguments still arose between Dora and Steve and between Steve and Ron, but these were usually over procedural issues rather than fiscal. Slugger's interminable stew was still as unpalatable as ever and there were days Dora felt that if she had to look one more egg in the face she would simply scream. She had signed up for a cookery course conducted by the Tockwith Women's Association and, with gentle urging and assistance on her part, Slugger had lately been undertaking occasional forays into other meal options with generally favorable results. At first he had fiercely resisted any infiltration of 'his' kitchen and 'his' duties, but had gradually—though not altogether graciously—accepted Dora's taking over cooking chores once or twice a week... not that her productions were as yet anywhere near as good as what she hoped to achieve. As Ron put it, 'When Dora first come here, she couldn't boil water. Now she can boil water good as anybody!"

During much of his tenure in the farmhouse, Slugger had been its sole mainstay. But with renovations nearly completed, rooms which had been shut up and disused for ages were now open again. It was entirely too much for one person, especially one getting along in years and beginning to exhibit the usual infirmities that went along with that. Dora had just negotiated an arrangement for a full-time housekeeper beginning tomorrow morning. She planned to break the news to Slugger tonight after supper and anticipated a full-scale rebellion on his part... and hurt feelings.

Then there was Ron and Hazel to consider. When Hazel Donnelly had in turn come under the Colonel's guardianship shortly after her installation at Follyfoot at the age of sixteen, her inappropriate attentions to Steve had caused her and Dora to get off on the wrong foot—a situation that was quickly remedied. The wild, willful girl had done a complete turnaround in a few short months, proving to be highly intelligent and throwing herself into schoolwork with a dedicated passion which had resulted in her skipping a grade ahead. She had achieved the highest levels with distinction and obtained her school leaving certificate with honors. The mutual attraction that had blossomed between the almost eighteen-year-old former delinquent and twenty-three-year-old Ron Stryker was verging on becoming a serious attachment, and had had a surprisingly salubrious effect on both of them. Hazel was currently off on an adventurous gap year of travel.

The remaining Big Question was: Where was Dora's own life going? Almost all her friends and acquaintances were already married or at least engaged. Soon she would be turning twenty-one years old, leaving her girlhood behind forever and officially—in her mind—entering the realm of spinsterhood... what her peers referred to as the sisterhood of the undead and unwed. Three years ago she wouldn't have minded so much. Then Steve had come into her orbit. Now, what she wanted—more than anything in the world—was a normal home with Steve as her husband in it, and children to love and cherish as neither she nor Steve had been.

Dora wasn't entirely ignorant of the facts of life. She'd dated other boys and enjoyed a few mild flirtations along the way, for the most part fending off their fumbling attentions. But that was the extent of her romantic experiences. She had overheard enough whispered conversations among classmates at school and village girls in the café to know how romance was _supposed_ to work. She had fantasized endlessly about kissing Steve, the kind of jelly-kneed, spine-tingling, shooting-star kisses she had only read about in the borrowed melodramatic novels she had kept hidden from her mother under her mattress. And, too, she had imagined intimacies far beyond kisses.

Dora realized that marriage didn't always equate to fulfillment and that sexual intimacy in itself, even if mutually desired, was no more than biological mechanics at work. She knew as much from Ron's endless boasting in earlier days of his conquests and ongoing scurrilous accounts of this or or that bird—a character trait she had found most repulsive—and she was sure it was only fear of Steve's volcanic temper that in the beginning had kept Ron from making advances on her. She was thankful that Ron had mellowed considerably since then, especially now that Hazel occupied his attentions and governed his behavior even in her absence.

Steve, in comparison, was as a cloistered as a monk. In the time Dora had known him, he had never spoken of previous girlfriends and only twice had shown interest in another woman. One of those associations, she knew, had flamed up far beyond mere interest, but the girl had gone away and never come back and the subject had never come up again. Dora considered for a few moments the problem of class boundary. She herself refused to acknowlege its presence, but for Steve it represented an impenetrable barrier.

Common sense dictated that it was time to abandon this unattainable dream... way past time... and start looking elsewhere for a suitable mate. As always when she allowed herself to dwell on the love that would never be hers, her eyes brimmed with tears and spilled over.

At that moment, with all these concerns competing for brainspace in Dora's head, Copper halted so suddenly she almost went over his neck. He held his head up and whickered, still and alert with his ears pricked forward, their tips almost touching.

"What is it, boy? What's the matter?"

They had arrived at the hidden lake where the path came closest to the grassy bank. She glanced around, not finding anything amiss until she chanced to look down and spotted a pair of ragged jeans with holes in the knees and a threadbare chambray work shirt spread on an adjacent bush, with a battered backpack on the ground underneath. Wiping a hand under each eye, she slipped off Copper and stepped to the edge of the bank but there was no one to be seen.

"Hello! Who's there?" she called out. Nothing happened for several seconds, and then there was a soft sploosh as something surfaced beneath an overhanging bush on the far side of the pond. A disembodied head glided across the water towards her, leaving a chevron of ripples in its wake, and stopping within a few feet of the bank. Dora found herself gazing down into a pleasantly smiling face with a generous mouth that tilted upwards at the corners.

"Hello yourself. I'm Bernard." The voice was low-pitched and husky, with a buttery accent she couldn't quite place.

**Dora blinked several times in consternation.** "Excuse me?"

"You must be Dora."

"I... er... how do you know my name?"

"This is the Follyfoot farm, right?"

"Well, yes... but..."

"Then I'm in the right place."

"The right place? I don't understand, Mr. ..."

"Just call me Bernard. I'm from the future and I'm here to help you."

"Help me... do what?"

"Whatever you need help with."

"But... what are you _doing_?"

"Um... swimming?"

"Are you out of your mind?" she sputtered.

"Possibly," he agreed.

"This is private property! You'd better come out of there right now," she demanded.

"Glad to oblige but... if you don't mind...?" He inclined his head toward the bush on which his clothing hung.

Dora gasped and whirled away, her face aflame. "Oh please! Put your clothes on!"

"That's the general idea."

She heard splashing as he clambered up onto the bank behind her and a few minutes later, "Okay. It's safe." He was zipping up his jeans as Dora turned around to come face to face with wide-set, startlingly translucent gooseberry-green eyes. He was exactly her height and probably near her own age.

"Do men usually run around naked where you come from?" she asked stiffly, acutely embarrassed.

"I wasn't running... and I wasn't expecting an audience." As he reached for his shirt Dora surveyed his compact torso with the sort of golden brown tan that one usually saw only on holidaymakers lately returned from tropical climes. She had ample opportunity for further scrutiny as he extracted a towel from his backpack and attacked a riot of undulating hair, coarse and tawny as a lion's mane.

Stuffing the towel back in the backpack, the stranger straightened up and favored her with a quirky grin, displaying shiny white teeth slightly out of alignment. He wasn't at all good-looking in the usual masculine sense but oddly striking. The ludicrous thought flashed through Dora's mind that with a good stylist and a bit of makeup he'd make a passably pretty girl, although his nose was ungirlishly wide and a little snub with a small bump at the bridge.

A small iridescent blue-green feather depended from a thin plait woven into his hair, just behind the left ear. Her thoughts were further derailed as her eyes traveled from the oversize blue shirt, sleeves rolled above the elbow, and down the disreputable jeans to bare feet protruding from beneath frayed hems. No one went shoeless in Yorkshire except when bathing or sleeping.

"Um... where are your shoes?" she asked stupidly.

He looked down as well. "Don't have any." Looking back up, frowning, "You've been crying... are you alright?"

"None of your business... it's... a personal problem."

"Sorry about that."

Dora sniffled and tried to smile. "I'll get over it."

"Nice horse you got there."

"Thank you. He's an..."

"Anglo-Arab. Yeah, I can see that."

The stranger was bending over and rummaging around in his backpack, coming up with a lidded plastic container from which he removed something small and silvery. Before Dora could complete her response, he had laid the object in the palm of his hand and presented it to Copper while resting his forehead against the horse's. Copper's nostrils flared as he investigated the offering... and then it was gone and the big red horse was avidly snuffling for more.

"What did you just give my horse?"

"Sardine."

"You fed him a _fish?_" she squeaked, appalled.

"Sure. Why not? He seems to like it."

Dora was speechless as he wiped his hand on his jeans and held it out to her.

"Let's try this again. My name is Bernard and I've come about the stable job. My apologies for swimming in your lake without permission. I didn't mean to alarm you."

Dora took the proferred hand hesitantly—she detested the smell of fish—and sensed rather than felt the faint current that pulsed between them, followed by a rare and inexplicable surge of self-confidence. It _had _crossed her mind that there quite possibly _might_ be something to be alarmed about—all alone in the woods with a strange man—but for some reason she wasn't in the least bit worried. And she should have been outraged that he had, without her permission, fed her horse something as outlandish as a sardine—but she wasn't.

"It's okay about the bathing... swimming, although you want to be careful about trespassing on private property unless you know the owner allows a public right of way for riders and ramblers. About the job... I... we, that is... yes, we're looking for help... a couple of people, actually...but..." Truth was, they were desperate for help and the three people who had responded thus far to their ads posted around town on bulletin boards and in the _Tockwith Examiner _classifieds had proven completely unsuitable.

"We? Don't you own this place?" Bernard inquired politely.

"I do, yes. Steve is sort of like... my stable manager. We usually make these decisions together."

"Whatever. Like I said, I'm here to help. Of course, I understand if you have to consult with this Steve first."

"I'm perfectly capable of making a hiring decision on my own, thank you," Dora retorted sharply. "But as to _hiring_ you, I don't... we... that is, _I_ don't know anything about you. You're certainly not from around here."

"True... but what's that got to do with anything?"

"I don't know... I hadn't considered... we can't afford to pay much."

He shrugged. "Don't need money... just food, a place to sleep and access to a bathroom."

Dora furrowed her brow. "I'm not sure I heard you correctly... are you... um... saying you'll work for _nothing_?" she said carefully, not knowing how to deal with this extraordinary offer.

"Yeah... just my keep. But I'm a real easy keeper. So how about it?"

She was about to say no but with an deal like that... what came out of her mouth unbidden, although she was uncomfortably aware of the fit Steve was sure to throw, was "When can you start?"

"How about right away? Okay if I sleep in your barn?"

"Well... I suppose that would be alright. There's a bed in the loft above the upper stables. Steve used to sleep there. It's not much but..." Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

"Cool... Catch ya later, then."

"We usually have dinner around six o'clock, right after we've brought the horses in for the night. Just come to the kitchen door—it's the one facing the stableyard."

"Okay... thanks. Might take a raincheck on that, though. Got a couple of things I need to do first." Bernard looked to the west and sniffed the wind. "Storm coming on. You might want to get your stock in before sundown."

Dora lifted her own nose but detected nothing other than the fragrance of ripened windfall apples. Odd, that... as there wasn't an apple tree in sight.

"What makes you think there is?" she questioned, doubting the veracity of his claim. It was still balmy and sunny and there hadn't been any such prediction on that morning's weather report.

He grinned and tapped his nose. "I know these things. Trust me." With that he picked up his backpack and vanished into the undergrowth, leaving Dora standing in the path with her horse.

**Dora remounted and had to cluck to Copper several times to get him to go.** He balked just a little, turning his head this way and that in disappointment, evidently hoping his new friend would suddenly reappear with more of the unusual but tasty treats. As they broke out of woods back onto the farm track, the sense of well-being Dora had experienced in Bernard's presence trickled away but the afterimage of his lambent green eyes stayed with her in a most disturbing way.

Almost from day one Steve had been the benchmark against which all other men had been judged and found wanting. To her, Steve was the embodiment of everything she had ever found physically attractive in the opposite sex. More than that, she admired the breadth and depth of his character and the courage of his convictions. Above all, she loved his empathetic heart that reached out to comfort others but consistently denied entrance to those who would comfort him.

Irrational comparisons skipped across her mind. Steve was sable, firelight and hot chocolate. Bernard was all sun, sand and tropical seabreeze. Where on earth had _that_ come from? This newcomer wasn't drop-dead gorgeous—like Steve—but attractive enough in his own way. No, that wasn't it... _compelling_... that was the word.

Abruptly she snapped out of her reverie as she rode by the fence-mending team, stopping to visit for a few minutes and see how they were getting on. She didn't mention her encounter. That would only have got Steve wound up. Slugger came out of the house to greet her as she dismounted to open the first gate. He held the second one open as she led Copper through.

"Good ride? Got a nice sammich waitin' on you. The boys has already et."

"Well, I was having a good ride until..." She related the exchange in the woods as Slugger helped unsaddle and rub down Copper, excluding the fact that she had just extended an offer of employment to a complete stranger and agreed to give him access to their home. (And was it really employment as such if someone volunteered to work for free?) She was going to have to do a bit of thinking on the best way to defend her actions.

"I don't much like the idea of you out there ridin' alone with some dodgy bloke on the loose."

"I don't think he was dangerous, Slugs, just... different. I think maybe he was an American."

"An American, you say? Might be he's a tourist what got lost. Did he give a name?"

"Yes... he said his name was Bernard. And he wasn't a tourist... he was actually on his way here to apply for the stablehand position."

"You told him to shove off, right?"

Dora shrugged. "Actually... no... I hired him." She hadn't meant to blurt that out but, seeing Slugger's dismay, added defensively, "He starts tomorrow. He'll be having his meals with us and using the downstairs loo. Oh... and sleeping in Steve's loft for the time being."

Silence followed before Slugger, dumbfounded, shook his head slowly. "I hope you know what yer doin', him bein' a complete stranger and all. Steve ain't gonna like it."

Dora sat up straight with that determined look Slugger knew only too well. "Whether he likes it or not doesn't concern me at the moment. We need help and we need it now. It's not like we're able to pick and choose from among _competent_ applicants. As you may have noticed, there haven't been any, so I'm going to at least give this one a try."

The shift in her pronouncement from the plural to the singular wasn't lost on Slugger. Neither was this sudden sprouting of assertiveness from the normally deferential Dora. _Something—or someone... this stranger in the woods?—has put a bug in her ear today._

"What's done is done. And you _are_ the mistress of Follyfoot, after all," he muttered unhappily.

Dora laid a hand on his arm. "We will give him a chance, won't we? He seemed nice enough... and Copper like him."

Appealing to him for affirmation... ah, much better. Slugger patted her hand awkwardly. "Of course we will, girl." _I'll have my eye on him, you can depend on that._ Inwardly, he dreaded the clash to come. Steve would feel slighted and resentful because he hadn't been consulted. Not only that, if the newcomer was anything other than too old, homely or ill-favored to represent competition for Dora's attention, Steve's jealousy would get in the way of his even trying to accept her decision graciously.

"Did Steve remember to make those calls or ask you to do it? Has anyone called back?"

"Nobody knows nothin' about no missin' horse. Come and have your lunch now." He looked curiously at Dora as they strolled toward the farmhouse.

"About what that lad said... about the weather turnin'... he's right. We got rain and cold comin' on. I can feel it in me bones and me arthuritis is actin' up." He gestured toward the west where a thin dark cloudbank was building beyond the undulant horizon. They entered the farmhouse and Dora went to wash up. Slugger had her sandwich and tea on the table when she got back and he sat down opposite her with a bowl of potatoes to peel, spreading newspaper on the oilcloth.

Dora stopped eating for a moment and a peculiar look came over her face. "He did say something rather odd."

"He who?"

"Bernard. I've only just remembered... when he first introduced himself, he said 'I'm from the future and I'm here to help.' What do you supposed he meant by that?"

"No idea. Just a bit of nonsense, sounds like. Americans are a strange lot anyway," Slugger said, not paying much attention just then. Her comment would come back to him later that evening.

**Field Journal: Sunday, September 1, 1974 • 7:00pm**

**Atmospheric conditions:** Dark and cold outside with hard rain.

**Immediate location:** Loft area over stables—-evidently where Steve lived until fairly recently. There's an iron bedstead with a lumpy mattress, a chest of drawers, a small table and a straight-back chair. A single sash window looks out over the stableyard. One overhead light fixture with an unprotected bulb, operated by a pull chain, but no other electrical outlets; the wiring looks new—a line running up the stairs and stapled to the wall.

Before I got here someone (probably the girl) brought up fresh bedding, a blanket and pillow, a basin, a pitcher of water, soap and towels and a roll of toilet paper. (There's a thundermug under the bed—haven't seen one of those since I was a pup!) Also a kerosene lantern and matches; the power must not be too reliable. The roof overhead seems watertight; haven't noticed any leaks yet. It's a little chilly but not too bad... probably body heat from the horses below help keep temps up. It's a bit spartan but similar to my first college dorm room except smells better (like horse) instead of unwashed roommate and stinky gymn socks.

Dora left me a note inviting me to dine with them but decided to pass on that since still feeling queasy. Too bad I missed supper but probably would've just thrown it up anyway. Should be over that by tomorrow. A hot shower would've been nice.

**Results:** Wasn't expecting the first encounter to take place where it did but I think the meeting with Dora went well. Her reservations aside, I believe I have at least piqued her interest. She seems uncertain of her authority even though she's owner and operator of this concern. Her relationship with Steve is somewhat of a puzzle—the way she talks, sounds more like friends who have become business partners and nothing more. Are they equals or is one subordinate to the other... and if so, could this be what's holding both of them back from taking it to the next level?

Also wasn't expecting to get my foot in the door this easily but gaining access to the premises right away was an unexpected bonus. Had another look around for orientation purposes before locating the loft and settling in.

**Plan:** Tomorrow, get myself introduced to the rest of the gang and figure out how to engineer private conversations with each.

**Technical issues:** None encountered upon retransformation—at least, none I'm aware of. Would need a mirror to know for sure and there isn't one here. Seems like all of me is back where it's supposed to be and in normal working order, though.

**General observations and questions:** Why was Steve living in the loft and not in the house, which certainly looks big enough? Is there some sort of unwritten moral code prohibiting unrelated young people from sleeping under the same roof?

I gathered from the case notes that "Slugger", the old man who also lives here (well, 55 isn't that old!), must be some sort of family factotum or farm overseer—in any case, someone the girl's guardian trusted implicitly or otherwise she wouldn't have been allowed to live here unchaperoned. Haven't yet seen him or the two other subjects-—Ron and Hazel. Evidently all five of them are now living in the house (so much for the moral code idea unless it's believed that a clutch of adolescents are less likely to indulge in hanky-panky that a single pair).

I'm guessing she hasn't broken the news yet about hiring me or someone (probably Steve or Slugger) would've already been up here to check me out. Of course, it is pretty foul outside and could be they just don't think it's important enough to get cold and wet over. I'd sure like to be a fly on the wall when this comes up in conversation.

Took a nap earlier and woke up when someone (Ron, I'm guessing) cranked up a motorcycle and took off. Drifted back to sleep and woke up again when the horses were being brought in by Steve and Dora. I could overhear some of their conversation as they were putting horses into their stalls below but none of it was personal. The horses know I'm up here but no one else does yet.

**Observations re Dora:** The photo doesn't do her justice. I wouldn't call her classically beautiful but she's extremely attractive with a good figure, a sweet little square face with an unblemished complexion, chipmunk cheeks, small even teeth and warm hazel eyes. Wears too much eye makeup and would probably be just as pretty without it but that's the current style. Her hair is golden brown. I've always liked the feather-cut and shag hairstyles of this era. She's about my height (5 feet 5 inches) so is taller than I expected but might be shorter without the boots. Believe her accent is what they call "posh" which I think means educated. Wonder what she makes of mine? Back then (or back now), mine was still backcountry mountain boy with a faint whiff of the Metis French spoken by my Canadian/Cree/Chippewa grandmother who lived with us.

Dora seemed to have a lot on her mind this morning and wasn't exactly overflowing with good humor. Have no idea if her worries have to do with the farm or the state of her love life or some other problem. She appears to be in good health otherwise.

**Observations re Steve:** (From this morning) A very handsome youngster. Bet he's a chick magnet of the first order. He's got all the good looks I used to wish I had. Girls seem to go for tall, dark and broody. Okay... so he's not that tall. But, in comparison, I probably resemble Peter Pan's homely cousin. Not that it matters... I'm here to conjoin, not compete.

**Notes to self:** SHE neglected to mention there's a fair population of Others in this region—like that lady of the lake I was in this morning. Lucky for me she's a happy but lonely spirit and was glad of the company, otherwise I'd be one drowned rat by now. BTW, her name is Myrtice which is a variant of Myrtle which of course is an aromatic green shrub sacred to the Goddess of Love. Is this, like, a HUGE coincidence or what? She said she'd be delighted to help with the mission if I could figure out a way to get them both in the water at the same time. She almost had them once but it didn't work out. Will have to give this some thought.

CHAPTER 4: _**"Whatever is begun in anger ends in shame" **_• Benjamin Franklin

**The afternoon hours passed quietly enough.** Dora had taken sheets, blankets and pillows up to the loft. Although electricity had finally been extended to all the outbuildings, the farm was subject to occasional power outages during heavy weather and kerosene and paraffin lanterns were still kept in each building as backup. She left an unlit lantern and a book of matches on the old warped dresser, along with a note to Bernard in case he showed up late.

Dora went back to the house and upstairs to wash up and change clothes before reporting to the kitchen to fulfill her promise to Slugger to learn something new every week. This afternoon it was the daunting task of creating pastry dough that didn't look, feel or taste like a pallid lump of putty. Learning how to cook under Slugger's tutelage was somehow much more difficult than in her cookery classes; the man never measured anything. It was always a handful of this, a knob of that, a pinch of whatzit, a chunk of something else... yet _his_ pastry dough always turned out light, flaky and delicious. _His_ pastry dough never stuck to the rolling pin like a limpet to a piling before falling apart. She tried to conjure up a vision of herself in a frilly pinny, serving up a slice of freshly baked apple pie to a certain dark-haired individual... such a silly dream.

Scraping carrots at the other end of the table, Slugger didn't bother asking what was troubling Dora; he knew all too well. _Someone needs to take that prideful young man by the ears and shake some sense into him before someone else came along and spirits Dora right out from under his nose. And that young woman, why, she needs the courage to speak up her feelings for the man with the same determination she applies to speaking up for her horses. _They were at a sorry impasse, had been for too long. Not for the first time Slugger wished he had the eloquence to open their eyes and ears and hearts to each other.

Slugger got up to look out the window and frowned at the quickly advancing clouds. As he watched, the LandRover rolled up, disgorging Steve and Ron who immediately set about putting tools away. Ron said something to Steve, looking up at the darkening sky and headed for his motorbike. Presently he roared off, apparently with the intention of running some errand before the storm broke. Steve poked his head into the kitchen.

"Girl, there's bad weather coming. We should get the horses in."

Nodding in agreement and relief at having a good reason to abandon her futile efforts, Dora left to join him.

"Of course Ron didn't offer to stay and help us," Steve griped as they headed toward the pasture. "Anything to avoid an extra bit of work! See anything of that stallion while you were out?"

"No." This probably would have been a good time to disclose the news, but she hadn't yet worked up her speech. Plus, she still had to break it to Slugger that Mrs. Dorothy Doyle would be taking over housekeeping duties as of the next morning. Then she'd have two upset men on her hands. And there was no telling how Ron would react. _How many more complications could there be?_ She sighed deeply.

"What?"

"Nothing, Steve. Nothing at all. Everything's fine." _Like hell it was._

"Have you been crying?" His genuine concern irritated her.

"Just a sneezing fit is all. Don't worry about it," she said curtly.

Steve gave her a baffled look but made no further comment. The horses, ponies and donkeys, attuned to the weather change and already congregated by the pasture gate, required no urging to return to the safety of the yard and their shelters. Their humans walked behind without speaking, lost in their own thoughts.

After getting the stock settled in, Dora returned to the house. Steve repaired to the tackroom to work while privately indulging in a secret pleasure: listening to a classical music station he had stumbled across by accident several months ago. Having never been exposed to this while growing up, he found himself enthralled with the beauty of orchestral music. Rather than risk derision by Ron, though, he had kept this new-found joy to himself and listened only when sure no one else was around. He had so many questions about it, but no one to ask. It never occurred to him that Dora would be the most likely source of such information, considering her education. At times like this he thought a great deal about all the things he didn't know and his ignorance settled on his shoulders like a leaden weight.

**Darkness came early along with a pattering of rain.** Ron had not yet returned. The wind had started to pick up and drops pinged against the kitchen window as Dora set the table for supper and Slugger rang the bell outside the kitchen door to summon Steve. As they ate, Slugger casually remarked on Dora's encounter with the stranger whom she thought might be an American hiker, but had no intention of bringing up the one detail that was hers to tell in her own good time, particularly after receiving a smart kick to the shin. Predictably, Steve grew agitated, banging a fist on the table. "He has a nerve, trespassing and frightening Dora. He'd best not come around here or I'll..."

"It wasn't like that, Steve. He was very nice."

"Ain't nothin' you can do about him tonight anyway," Slugger added.

"I hope he's alright," Dora said softly, almost to herself.

"Why should you care?" Steve snarled, annoyed.

"What if he's out there without any food or shelter?"

"Oh for pity's sake, Dora. You're being absurd. He's probably back where he came from, tucked up in some bed-and-breakfast somewhere." To Slugger, Steve said, "Next thing you know she'll start collecting all manner of vagabonds and we'll be having to install cots in the hay barn."

Dora held her tongue. Steve was conveniently overlooking the fact of his having arrived in pretty much the same fashion—jobless, homeless, with all his worldly goods in a duffle—and spending his first night at Follyfoot sleeping covertly in the hayloft.

Dora and Steve volunteered to do the washing up, leaving Slugger to relax in his rocker by the stove. Dora's new hire hadn't shown up yet but she couldn't put off much longer having to explain his presence when he did. Mentally she rehearsed her pitch, intending to deliver it as soon as they were done with the dishes. And after that, telling Slugger about the housekeeper. Steve, handing over dishes from the table to Dora, suddenly stiffened as he looked out the kitchen window.

"What?"

"I thought I saw something."

Dora couldn't see anything other than rivulets of rain on the glass. "I don't see anything."

"I'm just going to go have a look out the door."

From her position in the scullery with her hands immersed in dishwater, Dora could barely hear the opening and subsequent closing of the mudroom door. When Steve didn't return after a few minutes, she dried her hands and peeked around the door to the kitchen. Her mouth fell open.

Already in his mac, Steve had retrieved the Colonel's vintage side-by-side Purdey from its place of honor above the mantel in the parlor and was grimly loading shells into its double barrels. To Dora's knowledge, the shotgun hadn't been used in years, not since her uncle had given up hunting long before her arrival.

"Steve! What are you doing?!"

"There's someone in the loft. You stay here," he ordered, shoving the box of shells in a pocket and yanking open the door to admit a blast of wind and water.

"Steve... wait!" But it was too late. He had disappeared into the darkness.

**In the loft, seated on the edge of the bed,** Bernard was scribbling in his journal when he heard the scrape of the stable door. A damp draft swirled up from below and hay dust danced in the light of the single bare bulb hanging above. Unused to being disturbed at this hour, the ground-floor residents snuffled and whickered querulously in their boxes. Bernard calmly flipped the notebook closed, tucking it away in the backpack on the floor near his bare feet. Whoever had come in, it wasn't the girl, and he was pretty sure the visitor wasn't there in peace.

Steve pulled the door closed behind him and paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, shotgun at the ready. "You up there—whoever you are—come down here right now... and keep your hands where I can see them!" he bellowed.

After a few seconds a reply floated down. "Don't think so."

"Don't make me come up there. I've got a gun and I know how to use it." Truth was, he didn't. Steve had never handled a weapon in his life although he'd seen hunting rifles and shotguns loaded and fired many times in his former employment when he'd been called upon to accompany shooting parties.

"No need for violence. I'm unarmed."

"Either you come down or I'm coming up."

"Put the gun down first."

"I'm warning you..." Steve started inching up the stairs toward the intruder.

Meanwhile, back in the farmhouse, Dora was frantic. Slugger had drifted off into a comfortable doze and now Dora loomed over him, babbling incoherently and shaking him hard enough to rattle his teeth. He made out the words "gun" and "kill" and quickly came awake.

"Slow down, slow down! What are you on about? Where's Steve?"

"Hurry! We've got to stop him!"

"Stop who?"

"Steve... he's got Uncle's shotgun... Bernard... loft... oh please hurry!"

Slugger shot out of his rocker and into action, Dora hot on his heels. Scrambling into their foul-weather gear in the mudroom, they kept bumbling into each other in the confined space. Snatching up torches kept on a shelf, they hastened over slippery cobbles to the upper stable.

Just as Slugger wrenched open the stable door a bolt of lightning burst overhead followed by a tremendous thunderclap. Steve had almost attained the top step and just caught a glimpse of his quarry when the walls reverberated and the lone light bulb flickered. He jerked and his fingers involuntarily tightened first on one trigger and then the other. In the enclosed space the boom of the shotgun was almost as overpowering as the thunder. The first volley took out the single overhead light bulb and the second blasted through the window next to the bed. Wind and rain blew in. Extracting the box of shells with a shaking hand, Steve managed to drop it. It split open when it hit the floor and shells skittered everywhere, cascading down the steps. Unable to reload in the dark anyway, he dropped the shotgun and launched himself in the general direction of his prey.

Below, alarmed horses were squealing and neighing, rearing and kicking at the walls of their boxes. Dora screamed and dropped her torch, causing Slugger to drop his as well when he reached to catch her about the waist, fearing she was about to faint. He couldn't pick it up while holding her up at the same time and it took him a few minutes of fumbling before he could locate the switch near the door for the downstairs light.

Although Dora hadn't fainted, she was howling with both hands pressed to her face. In addition to that and the cacophony of terrified horses, the atmosphere resonated with thumps, crashes, yelps, grunts and curses raging up in the loft. Oddly enough, the only identifiable voice was Steve's. Whoever he was attempting to massacre wasn't vocalizing. Assuming that the birdshot—which was the only ammunition in the house—hadn't met its intended mark, Slugger briefly considered going upstairs himself and attempting to stop the fight.

He was still debating when the combatants reached the top of the staircase and met up with the first of the roller bearings—in the form of the cylindrical shells—littering the steps. They shot down the first flight like greased pigs in a chute, bouncing off the wall at the landing. Still grappling, they rolled over onto the next flight... and all the way down in a tangle of flailing arms and legs and landing in a heap on the stable floor, momentarily stunned and gasping for breath. Steve recovered first, one hand clenching the other's throat and the other drawn back in a fist. The victim was too busy using both hands to pry Steve's fingers off his throat to fight back.

Dora yelled. "Steve... no! Stop! Stop right now! Leave him alone!"

Steve's arm was brought up short by a powerful hand snatching the back of his mac and yanking him backward out of strike range. Slugger could react swiftly when need be. Steve was younger and fitter but the older man had the advantage of height, mass and an iron grip.

"That's enough, boys," he commanded.

Steve yelled back. "This tramp was trespassing..." His arms flapped uselessly as Slugger was holding him up by the scruff of his neck so that he dangled like a marionette.

"He's not a tramp... he's our new stablehand. His name is Bernard," Dora shouted defiantly. There, it was out. "I hired him... today. I told him he could sleep in the loft."

"You did _what?_" Steve's face reflected disbelief and then anger. "Without consulting me, Dora?"

"It was a spur-of-the-moment decision... and you weren't there." And she burst into tears again. Slugger dug into a pocket with a free hand and handed over a large handkerchief. He'd long ago learned to keep a supply on hand.

"I see... and when were you planning on telling me?" Steve snapped.

"Tonight... after supper. I was just going to when..." Dora blew her nose and waved her hand toward Bernard. "And anyway, since when do I need your permission to make decisions about _my_ farm?" The instant the words were out of her mouth she wished she could take them back.

"Yeah... right. You're the boss. I keep forgetting... I just work here."

The hot exchange immediately escalated to a full-on shouting match. Now that Steve's fury was focused directly on Dora, Slugger judged it was safe to turn him loose. His attention shifted to the newcomer, who had got up off the floor and was dusting himself off with no more concern than if he'd been indulging in a friendly arm wrestle.

As had Dora that morning, Slugger at first thought he was seeing a weedy, slightly-built teenager—certainly not an individual capable of besting Steve in a fight. At second glance, however, he realized Dora's new hire had to be somewhere in his early twenties. In Slugger's experience, anyone foolish enough to challenge Steve usually came out much the worse for wear. This time Steve was the one looking as if he'd been put through the meat grinder. Other than purple contusions encircling his throat and a few cuts and abrasions on his face and forearms, this Bernard didn't appear to have incurred any injuries at all. Somehow he'd even managed to avoid treading on any broken glass with his bare feet.

Sidling over to stand beside him, Slugger found himself looking down into a serenely youthful countenance... with flat grey eyes that displayed no expression and were anything but young. "Yer must be the famous Bernie. I'm Slugger."

"It's Bernard, sir," the other corrected, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Slugger."

"Erm... just Slugger will do. Yer okay, son?"

In the two seconds it took to complete a handshake, Slugger was startled by the buzz of energy that seemed to leap from Bernard's cool but steady hand to his own.

"No harm done. Can't say the same for your friend, though... I'm afraid he did most of that to himself. I tried to stay out of his way best I could."

Slugger was about to ask how he'd managed that—without light the loft was pitch black—when his nose was assailed by the aroma of sweet hay, newly mown and left to dry in the sun in windrows, which in turn invoked a pleasant childhood memory of helping his father with the autumn haying. But how could that be when the only hay on the premises was dry and delivered in the form of bales?

"Are they always like that?" Bernard asked, inclining his head toward the arguing couple.

"Oh no," Slugger responded. "Worse, usually."

"I've sure got my work cut out for me," Bernard sighed.

"Eh?"

"I said, are you sure they're not already married?"

Slugger was tired and chilled and it was getting late. He was put out over this ridiculous disturbance in his peaceful evening routine and having been made a party to yet another pointless argument between Steve and Dora. A decidedly odd feeling of determination quickly gelled into a steely resolve to wind it up... and to take Steve to task for his recklessness.

Unlike most upset people, Slugger's diction actually improved in direct proportion to the degree of his anger. He had a temper just like everyone else, but he so rarely let it out that most everyone forgot he had one. When the Colonel had still been alive, Slugger had been obsequiousness itself... just as his 'betters' had always expected. But in the past year he had by attrition become the elder of the family, the role model, the father figure, the arbiter of disagreements, the voice of reason and occasionally the lawgiver. This was one of those occasions.

He turned to Bernard. "Are yer things upstairs?"

Bernard nodded.

"Go up and get 'em. And bring that shotgun down with you."

Bernard climbed the stairs and directly came back down with his backpack and the shotgun, which he handed to Slugger.

Dora was still crying, frightened of the turbulence surrounding Steve, rolling off him in black waves. Prior to her coming to Follyfoot, she'd had little exposure to violent behavior and had been frightened and appalled the first time she had witnessed one of Steve's explosive outbursts, justifiable though it had been. It was a facet of his personality she chose to pretend did not exist although she could hardly ignore it at present.

"Oi!" Slugger said loudly, pointing his finger at Dora, immediately getting her and Steve's attention. "You," he commanded. "Go back to the house and get out of them wet things straightaway." Next he pointed at Bernard. "Take this one with you and show him to the downstairs lav. And find him some dry clothes."

Dora sniffled and gulped, unused to being addressed in such a peremptory manner, especially by Slugger of all people. "But..."

"What about me?" Steve forced out from between gritted teeth, shooting a glowering look at Bernard.

"You and me will be havin' a word, we will. And we've got to check none of the horses have hurt themselves, no thanks to you!"

Steve vibrated with with suppressed fury but at length dipped his head in what passed for acknowledgement. Dora was still standing there with her mouth and eyes wide open, turning and bolting out the door only when Slugger barked, "Get a move on, girl! You too." The finger now pointed at Bernard. "Go with her. Git." Bernard got.

**Dashing from the stable to the farmhouse** Dora slipped on a wet mossy cobble and Bernard quickly reached out to steady her. He was still holding her hand when she closed the door to the mudroom behind them and for several moments they stood almost nose to nose. Dora resisted the urge to recoil from this intimacy and from the tingling sensation that wound around her wrist and traveled up her arm. Although her mac had afforded Dora some protection, both of them were drenched and shivering.

She extricated her hand and shrugged out of her mac and wellies while Bernard stood off to the side with his backpack slung over one shoulder. The spell—or whatever it was—was broken. She wondered why she suddenly felt so clear-headed and purposeful when just a few minutes ago she was in such a panic. Crying jags usually left her feeling fuzzy and depleted.

Bernard was speaking quietly. "No worries, _bébé._ Slugger's doing what he needs to do and your Steve'll be a better man for it. Sometimes a guy just needs a little attitude adjustment to get him back on track. Trust me."

All practicality now, Dora assessed the sodden mess of her new hire and handed him an old towel to wipe off his filthy feet. His matted hair was speckled with straw and minute shards of glass. A few raw-looking scrapes on his arms had already clotted. A small but deep cut under his left eye had run down his cheek and made a pink stain on his wet shirt collar, but it too had already begun coagulating. Other features she hadn't noticed earlier were more prominent in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the vestibule: Thick sandy arched eyebrows and a faint sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of the nose. A marginal gap between the two upper incisors with a tiny chip at the inside corner of one. Large round eyes with long dark lashes and barely discernible epicanthic folds betraying an ambiguous ethnicity. What claimed her attention, however, was the _color_ of his eyes: no longer the vivid green she distinctly recalled from their encounter that morning but pewter gray.

"You're staring," Bernard said lightly.

"Oh... sorry... it's just that... I could've sworn your eyes are green..."

"They are." He shrugged dismissively. "Except when they're not."

_Curiouser and curiouser,_ Dora thought, then directed him to the lavatory down the hall. "There's clean towels in the cupboard. Toss the clothes you have on outside the door and I'll put them in the laundry. I'll find you something else to wear and leave it on the outside doorknob." His backpack appeared small and light and she judged there wasn't much in it. He thanked her and took it with him to the lav.

Dora put the kettle on to boil and ran upstairs to skin out of her own wet clothes. She could hear the shower running when she came back down.

Adjacent to the scullery was a storage room crammed with odds and ends of household detritus, things not currently needed but which Slugger was loathe to dispose of in case they might be—someday. Here also accumulated the discarded, outgrown, lost and forgotten belongings of former occupants, visitors and guests. This part of the closet Slugger kept organized and the clothing in good order. Steve had made liberal use of it when he had arrived with hardly more than the clothes on his back. Ron had frequently foraged in there when he needed a change of clothes on his occasional unplanned overnight stays before he started living at the farm.

Dora hurriedly selected jeans, teeshirts, jumper, socks, windcheater, a pair of trainers and a pair of well-worn boots she judged would fit. No pre-owned underwear, though; one had to draw the line somewhere. She located a pair of pajama bottoms but not the matching top. She stacked all on a kitchen chair except the pajamas and one of the tee shirts, which she hung on the outside doorknob of the lav. Then she retrieved the discarded clothing from the floor and deposited it in the laundry bin along with her own.

Waiting for Bernard to finish, the kettle to boil and other two men to come in from the stable, Dora sat with elbows on the table and fingers steepled under her chin, sorting through the puzzle pieces of this extraordinary day and finding that none seemed to fit. The smell of apples was pungent in the kitchen though the fruit bowl on the table was empty.

Yes... she was still angry with Steve, but not nearly so much as she ought to be—he had really pushed the envelope this evening. And Slugger... stepping so completely out of character that he was almost unrecognizable from the agreeable old man she had come to depend on. That alone beggared belief. But what bothered her most of all was that someone she had only just met and knew absolutely nothing about could, with just the gentle touch of his hand and his fluid voice, make her feel so calm, so collected, so... competent. Dora would be the first to admit she was prone to fits of depression as well as giddiness, but this many mood swings in a single day couldn't be healthy. She wondered if she was coming down with something.

**Slugger and Steve faced each other**, the older man's eyes blazing with an intensity Steve had never seen before. He knew he was in for a virtual thrashing if not a physical one. Slugger was not by nature confrontational; he didn't shout or employ harsh language and he certainly wasn't in the habit of visiting physical abuse on anyone... not since his boxing days, anyway.

"I ain't yer daddy nor your uncle, but I'm gonna talk to you as if I was."

"I was only..."

"Shut up. Yer behavior this evening was inexcusable. You've been told time and time again—by me, by Dora, by the Colonel, by everyone—violence ain't a solution to a problem. What were you thinkin'? You ain't got the first notion how to use a gun. You could have killed or crippled someone!"

"I wasn't really going to shoot him... I was just gonna scare him."

"First off... you don't never point a gun at a man unless you intend to kill him. And that would only be to defend yerself or someone else or if you're in the middle of a war, which you ain't."

"I thought he was a prowler..."

"That's what we have police for. Nor can you go around beatin' up on folks just because they crossed you or gave you a funny look. When you act like this, yer no better than a common thug. Is that what you want Dora to think of you? Is that what you think of yerself?"

"No sir." Steve dropped his eyes, abashed.

"Even without the shotgun you could have seriously injured that boy... you're bigger and stronger than him. And where would that get you? Right back in prison, the last place you want to be. And you'd lose every last bit of respect Dora has for you. Oh yes, she respects you all right... not for who or what you were, but for who you are now and what you could be if you put your mind to it."

Steve opened his mouth to protest but Slugger plowed on, having got his wind up.

"So what if you had hard beginnin's? You ain't the first and you damn sure ain't the only one nor the last one. All ye've done the past three years is feel sorry for yerself. Time to grow up, Steve."

"I'm not a child," Steve managed to interject peevishly.

"Then stop behavin' like one. Get on with yer life and do somethin' with it."

"Like what_?_" Steve asked bitterly. "I don't _know_ anything else. Doesn't anyone care how _I_ feel?"

"We all care about you, can't you get it through that thick noggin of yers, boy? We're family... in everythin' but name. When one of us hurts, we all hurt. We look out for each other. But when you pull a stunt like you did tonight, you put not only yourself but every one of us in danger." Slugger paused to catch his breath and Steve finally looked up.

"You're right. I know you're right," Steve said humbly. "But I don't know where to start."

There was more than just Steve's intrinsic inferiority complex at work here, Slugger knew... there was also territorial instincts and burgeoning jealousy.

"You think I'm stupid, don't you?"

"No, son. Hardheaded and bloody-minded, certainly... but not stupid. No one thinks that of you, but you have to remember... actions bring consequences. Think before you fly off the handle."

"Yes sir," Steve said miserably.

"We'd best see to these horses now."

**Field Journal: Sunday, September 1, 1974 • 8:00pm**

**Immediate location:** Bathroom in farmhouse.

**Interim notes:** There went one of my nine lives! So much for a dignified introduction to Steve. Getting shot at, beaten up and choked definitely wasn't part of the mission plan. It could've been worse, though. Being able to see in the dark is all that saved me from getting my head blown off or bashed in while that idiot was blindly bouncing off the walls trying to find me. If Slugger hadn't turned on the downstairs lights when he did, Steve wouldn't have been able to pinpoint my location and throw me down the staircase. Right now I'm still kinda numb from the adrenaline rush but I reckon I'll be feeling every one of those risers come morning.

I do remember reading that Steve has a rep for hotheadedness... if this hostility is his way toward all strangers, that would account for the lack of prospective hires—folks are just plain scared of him. There's no reason for him to have taken against me personally unless he's either unreasonably jealous of any man Dora meets or overprotective of his territory. Now—before even thinking about trying to make friends or attempting to get into his head—I'll have to focus on gaining his acceptance. And before that, will have to wait until he gets over being mad with the girl over the hiring issue. Question: Why was he so angry at her? Did she usurp some perceived (on his part) authority?

Dora is highly excitable and doesn't cope well with unpleasantness. On the other hand, once she's over her initial hysteria she quickly responds to necessary practicalities. For a city girl born and raised, she's not overly squeamish about blood and mess. Amazing how easily young people can adapt to conditions in a new and unfamiliar environment.

Seems this Slugger is a major player here. On the surface, just some old geezer who's a couple fries short of a Happy Meal... but under duress demonstrates that he's fully capable of exerting leadership and control. What's his authority and function? The young ones seem to mind him well enough... once he has their attention. Where does he fall in pecking order? Best watch my step around him. DO NOT underestimate. Prospective ally?

Apparently loud arguments between my two subjects. are commonplace. Do the others fight as fiercely among themselves? Foresee much work ahead.

Steve's a little too old for Slugger to be taking to the woodshed, but I imagine he's getting told off seven ways from sundown. And he jolly well needs it—firearms should never be handled by people who don't know anything about them. Duh.

On a personal note, had my first opportunity to look in a mirror since this morning. Turned out just like the Polaroid, so I'm okay with that—for the time being. I'm not altogether comfortable with being two different personalities in the same body, though. Throw in yet a third personality AND a different body and it gets truly disorienting. Now I understand how a patient with disassociative identity disorder (in this era still known as multiple personality disorder) really feels! Can only trust SHE was correct in that young me and old me will be able to operate simultaneously with no disconnects in thought processes and behavior. Still don't understand how this is going to work. Oh well... it hasn't even been 24 hours yet. Maybe everything will be clearer by tomorrow.

**Observation re farmhouse/outbuildings: **In a word: old-—as in of historical value. Everything constructed of stone. Must be some renovation going on—I smell new paint and woodwork. When you first go in the door there's a sort of cloakroom for boots, outdoor gear etc. Entering the kitchen was like flashing back in time to Grandma's (oh wait... I'm already in a time warp!)—complete with oil lamps, linoleum on the floor, oilcloth on the table, pots of geraniums on the windowsill and a big cast-iron woodburning stove. For some strange reason there's a piano in there, too. Fixtures like the kitchen sink and appliances must be in another room. No modernization going on in here yet!

Fortunately, the bathroom's all new and updated with a great walk-in I'd better hop into right quick before she gets the wrong idea about why I'm taking so long.

CHAPTER 5: _**"Superstition brings the gods into even the smallest matters"**_• Titus Livius

**Tea was steeping nicely in the pot** by the time Bernard returned to the kitchen wearing the pajama bottoms and a tee shirt, both several sizes too large; fortunately, the pants secured at the waist with a drawstring rather than elastic. He dropped the backpack in a corner and pulled a chair away from the table.

Dora had switched off the overhead light in favor of several incandescent faux oil lamps that gave off a muted golden glow. She poured tea for them both, placing the cream pitcher and sugar bowl within easy reach. Leaning away from the table, Bernard was ineffectually trying to work out with his fingers some snarls in his damp hair. Before she realized what she was doing, Dora had picked up a mane-and-tail comb that someone—probably Ron—had left on the sideboar.

"Let me help you with that." Without waiting for a response, she walked around behind him and grasped a skein of hair. It was then she saw a disquietingly familiar pattern of cicatrices on the back of his neck, just to the left of the cervical vertebrae. It took a few seconds to make the connection to what she'd seen that morning. She was about to comment on the similarity when a stroke of intuition advised her to save the observation for a more useful point in conversation.

Bernard's hair wasn't all that long—barely shoulder-length—but impossibly thick and coarse. He sat perfectly still even when she inadvertently yanked at a few of the more fearful knots.

"There," Dora proclaimed, moving to the other side of the table and plonking herself down. "It isn't any neater but at least it's tangle free." She took a sip from her mug and made a face; her tea had gone tepid. She drank it anyway. "Your hair is as thick as Steve's... but it doesn't seem to want to lay down."

Bernard reached up and pulled down a hank, inspecting it with crossed eyes. then pushed it back out of the way. "Oh... well, you know... I just washed it and I can't do a thing with it." Dora suppressed a giggle. He emptied his mug, not commenting on the fact that it was now cold.

"Thanks for the help. It would've taken me forever. And it's always a pleasure when a pretty girl does it for you. Do you do that for Steve?"

"Not likely," she said, picturing in her mind Steve's glossy sable brown mane and how it curled so enticingly at the ends when wet and in need of a trim, which it presently was. But an entertaining thought presented itself and she tucked it away for future reference as she refilled their mugs.

Bernard cupped his hands around the steaming mug, his eyes glowing above the rim with a feline green-gold luminescence. Dora studied him with a frown, not realizing she was doing so.

"You're staring again," Bernard said.

"Sorry. Your... erm... eyes... I've never met anyone before whose eyes changed color."

"Genetic anomaly... runs in the family." As if that explained everything.

"You're a long way from home," Dora ventured, more a statement than a question and patently an invitation to Bernard to volunteer information.

"Yes.

"You're an American, right?"

"Yes."

"How old did you say you were?"

"I didn't."

This circular interrogatory was getting her nowhere. Dora took another tack.

"However did you get those scars on the back of your neck? They're quite... unusual."

Bernard's composure seemed to flicker. "You don't want to know," he said firmly.

"Oh... but I do... you make it sound so mysterious." Dora was intrigued and for a few moments their eyes deadlocked. Bernard gave in first.

"Nothing mysterious about it. It's just a freeze brand. State, birth year and identification number."

Dora was horrified. Americans _branded_ their children like livestock? Unthinkable. Unspeakable. Scandalous. And what on earth was a freeze brand? She'd never heard of such a thing.

"That must have been painful," she said, for want of better words to articulate her outrage.

"It happened a long time ago. I don't even remember it." Clearly he didn't want to talk about that, either.

Another moment of silence, then Dora asked rather abruptly, "About what you said... about being from the future. What did you mean by that? Why are you really here?"

Bernard lowered his eyes to the oilcloth, his right forefinger describing lazy circles on the slick surface. "Everybody has to be somewhere. But like I said, I'm here to help."

"I don't understand."

"I'm sure you don't," he said softly, adding, "But you will. Am I being vetted?"

"I suppose so. I should have asked these questions before offering you the job. Any responsible employer would have done."

"Yes, you should have. Consider it a learning experience. So, do I still have it?"

"Have what?"

"The job."

"Yes. If you still want it. I'm so sorry about... what happened. If I'd told Steve earlier as I should have, this wouldn't have happened. It's my fault."

"I'm sure he's a nice enough guy when he's not busy trying to kill someone. He might even like me once he gets to know me."

"I wouldn't necessarily count on that. Steve is... well, he's had a hard life and he doesn't make friends easily."

"Roger that. But I'll do my best. I'm a nice guy too when I'm not busy trying to stay alive."

Dora was looking around irritably. "Where is that _smell_ coming from?"

"Wasn't me. My momma taught me not to do that in front of ladies."

"What? Oh, never mind. Must be my imagination working overtime. It's been a long day."

**A gust of wind blew into the kitchen** as the mudroom door admitted Slugger and Steve. They stripped out of their macs and wellies and padded into the kitchen on stockinged feet. Steve's mien was as sullen as Slugger's was determined.

Dora fought to contain a gasp of dismay at the extent of Steve's damages—she'd been too angry to notice them in the stable—and she forced herself to remain seated. His right eye was swollen almost shut, a ragged cut on the left jawbone still dribbled blood, knuckles on both hands were scraped and raw... and these were only the injuries she could _see_. For a moment she blamed Bernard for having been the architect of Steve's hurts, although she was perfectly well aware that Steve had brought this state of affairs upon himself.

"Steve has something to say to the both of yer," Slugger announced.

Steve's eyes went first to Dora. "I'm sorry." It was a poor excuse for an apology and he knew it. When she didn't answer immediately—and with a glare from Slugger, he added in a more sincere tone, "The way I acted and the things I said... I was out of line and I was foolish. It won't happen again, Dora."

At length she gave the tiniest nod of acceptance.

The second apology was even harder to deliver, but somehow Steve managed it even though his expression said that he'd rather be disemboweling Bernard with his bare fingers. Bernard accepted graciously and stood up to offer his hand. Steve hesitated before returning the handshake. Dora, watching closely to gauge his reaction, was gratified to see the same kind of mystified recognition she herself had experienced. So it _was_ Bernard, after all. She wasn't just imagining it. Something about him induced calmness amidst agitation.

Slugger dispatched Steve to the lavatory then excused himself to go change out of his own wet clothing. When he returned to the kitchen to join Dora and Bernard at the table, she already had his favorite mug ready and waiting. Dora allowed as how Slugger probably had some questions of his own and gave him the floor. Bernard appeared not to mind.

Dora was surprised by Slugger's first query. "While you was out walkin', you happen to see a stray horse out in them woods?"

"A horse?"

"Maybe a large pony. Ugly yellow brute with green eyes."

"I might have," Bernard admitted evasively.

"Wouldn't happen to know anything about it, would you?" Slugger pressed.

Apparently fascinated with something in his tea mug, Bernard mumbled something.

"Sorry... what's that you said? The brute's yours?"

Bernard looked up. "Sort of... that is, I'm responsible for his being here."

"This a secret for some reason?"

"I'd rather the authorities didn't know about him... or me, for that matter."

"Are you in some kinda trouble? On the dodge. We don't need that kinda aggro here, son."

Bernard went on the defensive. "The law isn't after me as far as I know. It's just that I don't have a passport... or a visa or a work permit."

"And no import papers for the beast, either, I suppose. I'd like to know how you managed that."

"Wasn't easy."

All else was forgotten as Dora zeroed in on the subject of Bernard's horse... especially his lack thereof.

"But he's yours? He belongs to you?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Then why isn't he with you?" Dora asked.

"He sort of comes and goes... he'll be there when I want him."

"I've never heard of such a thing."

"He's not an ordinary horse."

"What is he, anyway? I've never seen a horse quite that... different," Dora persisted. What she meant was hideously ugly.

"Oh... uh... avatar. He's an avatar, " Bernard admitted reluctantly.

"Never heard of that breed," Slugger said.

"Well, it's not exactly a breed... more like a state of being. Rarely seen."

"What does it mean, then... avatar?" Dora asked. "It must mean something."

"It's a little difficult to explain... in Sanksrit, in the Hindi belief system, an avatar is a supernatural being sent into the world to restore order amid chaos. In some Eastern religions it means 'reincarnation'. Commonly used, though, it's a two-dimensional picture used to represent something on a comp... uh, in other words, it's a virtual image of something instead of the real thing."

In the silent interlude that followed, Bernard could see the other two had no idea what he was talking about.

Dora stood up first. "I don't know about you two but I'm done in. Slugger, can you get Bernard sorted out? He'll have to sleep in Hazel's room as there isn't any other place with the window out in the loft, and Ron might be back tonight. And would you check to see if something's rolled under the stove... like an apple? I keep smelling apples and I know we don't have any." With a 'Goodnight, Slugger. Goodnight, Bernard,' she vanished down the hall and up the stairs.

"Apples!" Slugger humphed, knowing good and well there were no errant apples under the stove... or anything else for that matter as he carefully swept underneath every day. Besides, all he could smell at present was green hay... as strong as if an entire bale was secreted beneath the kitchen table.

A few minutes later Steve eased into the kitchen wearing Slugger's ancient terry bathrobe. "Any tea left? Has Dora already gone up?" While not exactly being cordial to Bernard, it was evident he was making an effort not to be actively unpleasant.

"Yes and yes," Slugger answered, returning from the scullery with the first aid kit from which he extracted aspirin, plasters and a tin of Germolene. Years of administering palliative care to injured horses and their hapless, equally accident-prone attendants had provided Slugger a sure hand with fingers that instinctively searched out strained muscles and aching joints, knowing where to apply pressure and how to avoid tender spots. It was Slugger who maintained the first aid supplies and dealt with minor injuries of both horses and humans.

Bernard declined any medical attention, claiming no need, so Slugger's repair efforts went to Steve. Miraculously there were no broken noses or bones, no debilitating strains or sprains. Still, they'd both be sore as hell in the morning, Slugger ruminated as he shook out analgesic tablets into his palm. Steve took two and chased them with tea. Bernard, however, waved them off.

"I'm good."

"It's just ordinary aspirin... nonprescription... everyone uses it for aches and pains."

"Sorry... can't do drugs of any kind," Bernard explained. "Allergies."

"Suit yerself. Time for both of yer to go to bed yer ownselves."

Before ascending the stairs Steve paused and looked around inquisitively, "Did you bake biscuits today, Slugs? I could swear I smell cinnamon." He shook his head and trudged upwards. Slugger gestured to Bernard. "Come on, then. I'll show where you'll be sleepin'." With Slugger leading the way, Bernard clumped up the stairs clutching his backpack and the spare clothes Dora had rounded up for him.

**Slugger returned to the kitchen to polish off the last of the tea.** It was true that old people required less sleep than young ones; he was always the first one up and usually the last to retire. He was in the habit, once his charges were tucked up in bed and the house was quiet, of sitting alone in the kitchen to organize his thoughts and observations at the end of each day. This one had certainly provided him with much to think over. _I'm just an addlepated old man and gettin' more muddled by the minute._ Glancing up at the ormolu clock on the mantel, he saw that it was nearing midnight.

First was the matter of the unexplained horse and how it had arrived in their pasture in the first place. Slugger wasn't overly fond of horses in general; they represented too many boring boyhood hours behind the plow on his family farm. He could manage them and ride if pressed; he just didn't enjoy it. His eye automatically took in points and markings, good and bad, so that he could almost always recognize a horse whenever he saw it again. He wished he'd got a chance to see this remarkable animal himself.

Next, Dora's encounter on the bridle path... ever since her arrival at the farm, she had been in the habit of riding out on her own, whether or not a hacking partner was available. At first Slugger had suffered agonies of worry that something might happen to her out there alone and that the blame would fall on him. Gradually he had come to accept that the girl was accustomed to solitary pursuits and was a competent enough horsewoman to be granted that freedom. And the few times a mishap had occurred, Steve had been on hand to effect a rescue. Today wasn't the first time she'd been accosted by a man unknown to her while riding alone. Well, not accosted, exactly... but Slugger didn't wish to dwell on the what-ifs.

Then, the enigmatic youngster whose unnaturally colored eyes appeared grey in the barn but had transmuted to green by the time Slugger returned to the kitchen... oh yes, he'd certainly noticed _that_, but had kept it to himself. Who was he, really? Where had he come from and why was he here? He recalled Dora's comment about Bernard's claim that he was 'from the future.' And in conversation that newcomer was elusive as a cat with kittens, definitely hiding something. Slugger meant to find out what.

Slugger was not unaware of the effect Bernard seemed to have on those who came in contact with him—today's uncharacteristic exhibition of toughmindedness on Dora's part, for instance. His own urge to take charge. Steve's transition from resentment to tolerance directly he had shaken hands with his former adversary. Last but not least, Slugger pondered on the lingering aroma of fresh cut hay... not unwelcome, but certainly out of place in his kitchen. He couldn't immediately grasp the significance of all this, but his gut insisted that there was a connection. Neither religious nor especially superstitious but country-born nonetheless, Slugger owned a countryman's innate timorous respect for the supranatural, things for which no reasonable excuse could be provided. A frisson of apprehension rippled down his spine.

Had they made a terrible mistake welcoming this shady individual into their midst? For all they knew he could be an escaped lunatic or axe murderer. Slugger dredged up from memory something about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer. He wasn't sure what this meant, exactly, but decided to interpret it as meaning it would be avisable to keep this unknown quantity close at hand, where he could be watched and any signs of trouble-making nipped in the bud, rather than cast him out into the rainy darkness where he might get up to who knew what sort of mischief.

Slugger attempted to put aside those unnerving thoughts and focus on something else... his annoyance at Ron's failure to return home or even bothering to telephone that he was spending the night elsewhere. He wasn't worried that the boy might have come to grief on his motorbike in the dark—someone would have called by now. He was more concerned that in the absence of Hazel's proprietary oversight Ron might be falling back into his former profligate ways and carousing with his no-good mates.

Slugger got up to bank the fire and looked in on his own bedroom, converted from his late wife's old sewing room, recently updated and reeking of not quite dry paint. Hopefully tomorrow he could move back in. He had been a much younger man when he and Elizabeth—known to all as Tiny—had come to Follyfoot after his boxing career had ended. They'd had ten good years here before the illness took her. They'd had no children but had served as houseparents to a succession of young stablehands with no homes of their own to claim. Before Dora's and Steve's arrival, though, there had been an interval of several years when there had been no young voices to liven up the place and Slugger had rattled about all alone in the big old stone farmhouse. It was cheerful, having the four young people here now—his surrogate children, and he determined to renew his efforts to find a way to bring Dora and Steve together. The sooner the better.

Having lived in this old house twenty-two years, Slugger was familiar with every creaking floorboard and knew where to step to avoid them. At the top of the stairs he paused and listened: nothing but faint snores emanating from behind closed doors. Satisfied, he entered his own temporary bedchamber, undressed and fell into a fitful slumber.

Down the hall, snuggled under the covers but unable to fall asleep right away, Dora heard Slugger's surreptitious footfalls and the snick of his door closing. She envisioned an alternate scenario to the ending of the contretemps in the stable in which she rushed to draw her battered champion into her arms, uttering words of comfort and succor with her face pressed to his shoulder and his breath warm against her cheek before he kissed her. Well, it _could_ have happened that way... if only she hadn't thrown that bloody stupid fit and then screeched at him like a fishwife.

Or maybe she should just kiss him first... tomorrow—first opportunity—to underscore her unconditional forgiveness. Catch him unawares. But no, social conditioning wouldn't allow that. Good girls do not make first advances. It just isn't done. Period. Good girls exemplify their good breeding by chastely waiting for their suitors to approach them. Then and only then can they graciously—and with an appropriate display of maidenly reserve—allow themselves to be kissed. That's just the way it is. Her prince—if not Steve then whoever he turned out to be—would have to come to her, not the other way around. Dora's last conscious thought was, "If only I knew _how_ to kiss..."

**Field Journal: Sunday, September 1, 1974 • 11:55pm**

**Immediate location:** I've been relegated to a young girl's bedroom. Who is Hazel and where is she? Must be a bit of a tomboy. The room's not too frilly but definitely a teenage girl's lair. Posters of rock stars on the walls. Stuffed animals. Comfortable bed with a firm mattress. I know I can't stay here but it's sure nicer than the loft.

Where did Ron go and why hasn't he come home?

**Plan:** Seek opportunity for making peace with Steve and possibly a one-on-one away from the others ASAP. Find out where he visualizes his relationship with Dora going, what he sees as his future and what his plans/goals are, if any. Same for the girl whenever I can get her alone.

**Observations re Ron:** Spied on Ron and Steve as they were doing fence maintenance. They seemed to be getting the job done although Steve's the more efficient of the two and not very patient (yelled and threw things a couple of times when Ron wasn't moving fast enough). Was watching through the loft window when they came in to unload the truck. Steve seemed irritated when Ron took off instead of helping get the livestock in. "Insouciant" is the description that comes to mind here. My initial appraisal: bad boy wannabe. And he's a redhead. Redheads always mean trouble. Watch out for this one.

**Observations re Slugger: **Would sure like to know more of his history. Where did he come from and how did he end up here, unofficially in loco parentis? I don't believe the kids are aware of how observant he really is. He also seems unhappy about something that either is or is not going on between my two primaries. I can tell he's nervous about me being IN the house but couldn't come up with an alternate solution. I'll try to be an especially considerate and unobtrusive house guest.

Is Ron the only carefree individual on this farm?

**Technical issues:** Somewhat more than expected but not insurmountable. Will have to do a self-inventory in mirror and try to figure out what was bothering Dora. And here I thought I was doing a fairly decent job of maintaining an ordinary appearance! SHE said I would "blend in" but something still isn't quite right and I'm not sure what that something is. Not the hair, I think... mine isn't that much longer than Steve's... there's just more of it. Surely there was no shortage of hippies passing through in the late 60s so it's not like they've never seen long hair on a man before. (And if they think that was bad, just wait another five or six years when the music scene gets into hair bands!)

There are some things I can't do anything about... that damned scar for instance (and hell yes, it hurt!). And the changing eye color thing. Color-altering cosmetic contact lenses could disguise that but they haven't been invented yet. The olfactory problem is somewhat embarrassing... but at least they're not unpleasant odors. It's not easy being an Other in a Normal world.

My inability to metabolize pharmaceuticals has always been problematic. I feel like death warmed over. Hope this doesn't interfere with my physical performance tomorrow. It's necessary that I make a convincing stablehand in order to preserve my cover.

Transforming myself into the twenty-something version of me wasn't as difficult as I anticipated. Kinda cool, actually. I wonder if I could make myself look like anyone other than me... not that I would especially want to. Wonder if there'll be any long-term effects. Just a thought.

**For the record:** Is all of England swarming with Others or just this corner of it? I can sense that Others have even lived here in this house in the not-too-distant past. Too nebulous to identify with any degree of certainty. Perhaps one or more of the residents has a skeleton in his/her family closet? It's possible he/she isn't even aware of the connection, especially if it was introduced several generations back. Wouldn't be a bit surprised to discover a troll or two in the root cellar or a couple of house elves in the attic.

**Note to self:** Definitely not as fit as I used to be! Too many years behind desks and lecterns.

**PART THREE • MONDAY**

CHAPTER 6: _**"The supernatural is the natural not yet understood"**_ • Elbert Hubbard

**Slugger's body clock rolled him out of bed at five-thirty** as it always had, just before sunrise. The storm had abated during the night and the crepuscular light of dawn promised a clear if slightly chilly day. He shuffled down the staircase in his nightshirt and slippers to stir the coals in the kitchen stove and get the fire going before returning to his room to get dressed. Before Steve and Ron had moved into the house, Dora was usually the second one up, grabbing a mug of tea for herself and fixing another one for Steve and taking it out to him, sometimes up to the loft; it had become their morning ritual before beginning stable chores. Slugger would begin assembling breakfast ingredients and have a second pot brewing before Ron showed up around seven... or later. Nowadays all of them—including Hazel when she was home—set their alarms for six o'clock. But this morning there was no clatter of feet on the stairs and no chirpy 'Good morning, Slugs.' The house was still as Slugger puttered about as quietly as possible. Wouldn't hurt to let them sleep in for a change. And just for once, they'd have breakfast before chores. The animals could wait an extra half hour.

He had just put the kettle on and was down on his knees poking short lengths of wood into the firebox when a vehicle rolled into the drive. He got up to peer out the window and found himself staring directly into the placid face of a broad Jersey cow contained in a small stake-sided trailer behind a familiar green Hillman Husky.

Forgetting he was wasn't dressed yet, he went to answer the sharp rap at the door.

"Missus Doyle... Dottie... what are you doing here? Ain't our day for milk 'n eggs, is it?"

"And a fine good morning to you, too, Edward. No, it isn't egg day but I brought you some anyway. Came early so's to have time to look around and see what's needed before starting." Five-foot nothing of cheerfully robust health, sparkling china blue eyes and a mop of redgold curls, Dorothy Doyle didn't wait to be invited in but sailed past him into the kitchen, depositing on the table her substantial carryall and a rush basket filled with eggs nestled in straw.

"Starting?" Slugger was confused. "Er... starting what?"

"Why, keeping house for your lot, of course. Didn't Dora tell you?"

"No... Dora never said..."

"Likely forgot. Girl's got entirely too much on her mind and too big a burden on her shoulders. And here you are still lollygagging around in your nightclothes with the tea not even made yet. Go get yourself dressed, old man, and roust those young 'uns while you're at it. I'll start breakfast. Children are always ravenous at that age." The Widow Doyle, owner of a fine contralto voice, a broad talkative streak and four strapping sons, was accustomed to dispensing instructions with an authority that brooked no nonsense. She marched into the scullery as Slugger fearfully backed out of the kitchen and gallumphed up the stairs. _Dress first, ask questions later!_

Slugger was back in record time with Dora right behind, in her nightdress and dressing gown and wringing her hands.

"Oh Slugger I'm so sorry I forgot to tell you I meant to truly I did but in all the excitement I just forgot surely you know no one can replace you but it's just become too much for you alone and I don't time have to help anymore and the boys are so useless and you'll have more time relax oh Slugger please don't be angry with me I only meant things for the best..." The words came out in such a rushed jumble that Dora had to stop and catch her breath while Slugger patted her arm in a conciliatory manner.

"Shush, girl. I ain't upset at all... in fact, I think it's a fine idea. Tell the truth, I was wonderin' how we was gonna manage. It's been gettin' harder and harder for me to keep up. I only wish you'd told me earlier so's I could've cleaned up a little before Missus Doyle got here."

The new housekeeper whipped a large floral apron out of her carryall and rolled up her sleeves. "Missus Doyle is it? I'm not having that! It's always been Dottie and I'm not about to answer to anything else!"

"Er... Dottie... but if you're here, who's gonna look after the dairy?"

"Jeremy and Sarah have come home and will be taking over the family business." Dottie went on to explain that her eldest son and his wife had decided the city wasn't where they wanted to rear their six-month-old son. As none of the other three boys were interested in the farm, the arrangement was that Jem and Sarah and little Ian would live in the farmhouse with Dottie. Eventually a mother-in-law cottage would be constructed elsewhere on the property, at which time Dottie would hand over the principal residence to the younger woman. "Which suits me just fine," Dottie assured, "I'll still have a place for Queen Maude. I'll have my grandbaby right there. And after I'm gone Jem can make his own arrangements with his brothers about their shares in the farm."

"Does this mean no more butter and eggs?" Slugger asked dolefully.

Dottie laughed. "Don't worry, old man. I've been teaching that Sarah and she's a dab hand at turning out butter as good as mine. And I'll be keeping my chooks. Hand me that skillet, dear, would you?"

Dora suddenly realized that Dottie was intending to start breakfast. "Oh... er... I wasn't expecting you to cook as well!"

"Pish! It won't take all day to keep the house in order once I get it organized. And I'm sure you won't mind a change from that evil concoction Edward calls stew." Dottie surveyed the antedeluvian Victorian cookstove and made a face. "Haven't dealt with one of these wretched things in yonks but I suppose it will just have to do."

Slugger bristled. "No one cleans Black Beauty but me!" he huffed. The antique stove was his pride and joy, which he lovingly blackened and polished to a high sheen every week without fail and had cooked on almost every single day for over two decades.

Dottie rolled her eyes.

"What's going on? I heard voices..." The poster child for Elastoplast hobbled in.

"Missus Doyle has come to keep house for us," Slugger offered.

"Oh? Great! Hi there, Miz Doyle."

"Steven." Dottie stood with her arms akimbo, tsking with disapproval. "Been scrapping again I see. Don't think you're coming to table looking like you were just thrown out a pub door! Tuck that shirt in and go comb your hair."

Startled into obedience, Steve started backing out of the kitchen. "Could I have some tea first?" he inquired plaintively.

"No. You'll get some when you're presentable."

"Yes m'am." Steve withdrew and Dottie trained her sights on Dora.

"And you get yourself right back upstairs and put some proper clothes on. Young ladies don't parade around in their nightclothes when there's men about!"

"Yes m'am," Dora replied meekly and departed.

"Edward, there're more bags on the backseat; you can bring those in and put them on the counter in the scullery. But before you do that, please get Queen Maude down from the trailer. You can just turn her loose —she won't go anywhere."

"Yes, Dottie." Slugger forebore asking why the widow had brought her favorite cow along in the first place and did as told. As soon as he staggered in with the last load he was directed to remove cleaning supplies from one of the bags and place them in whatever location he kept such items. And when the two young people reappeared, suitably attired by Dottie's standards, she immediately assigned them to bringing crockery and silverware and items from the fridge to the table while she extracted jars of home-canned pickles and jams and fruits from the other carrier. "Steve, put these on the table." Next came two loaves of freshly baked bread which she handed to Dora. "You can be slicing this." Lastly, a large succulent-looking cured ham appeared. "And Edward, I'll be needing some of this for the pan."

Steve, never at his happiest in the morning, whispered to Dora, "Looks like we've both been demoted from stablehand to dogsbody."

"Stablehand!" Dora squeaked, fingers flying to her face. "We've forgotten Bernard!" She flew up the stairs, descending a few minutes later with a puzzled look.

"His things are there but he's not. Where could he be?"

"Not far enough," Steve muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing... maybe he's gone for a walk or something."

The rumble of a motorcycle racing down the drive heralded Ron's arrival. A few minutes later the kitchen door blasted open.

"Ooooh, just in time for breakfast! Any tea?" The exhuberant redhead plopped himself down in his usual chair. "Mucking already done? Splendid!"

"You wish." Slugger, trundling in from the scullery with a skillet full of ham slices to put on the stove, addressed him sourly. "Had a nice evenin', did we? You could've called, you know, so's we wouldn't worry."

"Sorry... got caught up in a private party. Stayed over at me dad's, not that the stepcow was glad to have me. So, what's all this?" Ron's attention went to all the unusual items on the table and then fell on Steve's battered face.

"Cor! Looks like I missed a better party here! What happened to you, mate?"

"None of your business," Steve retorted.

"And please quiet down before you give us all a headache!" Dora added.

"Oooooh. Got up on the wrong side of the bed, did we? And top of the morning to you as well, Your Ladyship... _Owwwwwww!_"

Dottie had marched up behind him and given his earlobe a vicious twist, pointing to muddy footprints leading from the door to the table. "Look at the mess you've made, Ronald Stryker! You'll be cleaning that up, you will!"

"Missus Doyle... what are you doin' here...?" Ron gasped, rubbing his throbbing ear.

Slugger opened his mouth to explain about the other sudden addition to the household, then thought better of it. These were Dora's doings; best let her do the explaining. In the meanwhile, Dottie had steamed back into the scullery to crack eggs into a bowl.

"Mrs. Doyle will be keeping house for us, starting today," Dora said, adding ominously, "And if you know what's good for you, you'll mind her!"

"Wonderful. Just what I need, another old biddy bossing me around!"

"I heard that!" Dottie bawled from the other room, "And if you want to make old bones I'll not be hearing it again!"

Steve snickered and Slugger snorted.

Ron reached for a bread slice and started slathering on butter and jam. "By the way, there's some idjit out swimming in the lake. Whoever he is he's gonna freeze his... er, that is... it's awfully cold."

Dora dropped the knife she was holding and Steve scowled, starting to get up. "Damned fool! I'll go get him."

But Dora was already in the mudroom, pulling on her wellies and windcheater. "I won't be a minute."

"Suppose it would be too much to ask just what the hell is going on around here," Ron grumbled.

**As Dora approached the lake** she could see Bernard returning from the far side with a steady stroke.

"Are you crazy?" she called out when he was close enough to hail.

"You keep asking me that," he answered, treading water.

"Hurry up," she scolded, "We're waiting breakfast."

"Give me a minute?"

"Oh help! Not again!" She turned her back to him and waited until he gave her the all clear. When she turned around again the first thing she checked were his eyes—a sparkling emerald green.

"Where are the boots I gave you?"

"Forgot 'em. Sorry," he apologized, not looking the least bit sorry.

"You've lost your feather," she pointed out.

"No matter. I'll find another one."

"Why do you wear that ridiculous thing, anyway?"

"Same reason you paint your eyes. Makes me look pretty. You, though... you don't need any ornaments."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"It won't? Well, you can't blame a guy for trying. Oh look... there's one now. How convenient." He bent over to pick up a brown feather with silver spots.

Dora turned again and stalked up the slope toward the farmhouse, Bernard easily keeping pace in his bare feet. They rounded the corner of the stone wall to find their path impeded by a large brown cow which took one look at Bernard and let out with an antagonistic moo before charging. Dora jumped to one side and in the blink of an eye Bernard was atop the stone wall. The cow thundered to a halt and paced below, twitching her tail furiously and brandishing her sharply tipped recurved horns.

"You didn't say you had a _cow_," he called down accusingly.

Dora stood in mute bafflement for a moment before breaking out laughing. She walked over to the cow and took her firmly by the halter.

"For heaven's sake, it's only a cow. What are you afraid of?"

"I _hate_ cows," Bernard shuddered.

"Queen Maude is the nicest cow in the world, aren't you, Maudie?" She stroked the cow's nose and scratched her behind the ear.

"I don't care. Put it away. Please!"

Dora had to lead the cow away into the stableyard and close the gate before Bernard consented to come down from the wall and follow her to the kitchen door.

"Queen Maude isn't ours... she belongs to Mrs. Doyle."

"Mrs. Doyle?"

"Our new housekeeper. She just started this morning. And before you ask... yes, she takes Queen Maude with her everywhere she goes. She's a little eccentric that way but very nice."

In the mudroom Bernard wiped off his feet with the same towel he'd used the night before while Dora removed her wellies. As they stepped into the kitchen, Steve and Ron looked up from their seats. Slugger and Dottie were standing by the stove, the latter with an expression of shock. Dora started to make introductions before realizing Bernard had come to a dead stop at her side... and no... it wasn't her imagination working overtime... his face was expressionless and his eyes had gone flat gray.

"Now what's the matter?" she whispered.

"You didn't say you had a _witch_, either," Bernard whispered back.

Dora was about to demand what he meant... even as she felt the current sparking between her companion and the housekeeper... and fell silent.

Dottie narrowed her eyes, her lips tightening to a thin grim line as she backed out of the kitchen into the scullery. "Edward, a word in private if you please." They exited through the scullery door to the kitchen garden, closing it with a bang.

**Outside and out of earshot, Dottie rounded on Slugger.** "What is that creature doing under your roof!" she hissed. "Have you taken complete leave of your senses?"

"What creature?" Slugger was flummoxed. Never before had he seen Dorothy Doyle in such a state. "You mean Bernard?"

"Yes, of course that one!" she spat. "There's been none of its kind in this district in years. We thought we'd driven them all back to Scotland... where they belong!"

"Eh? You mean... Americans?"

"Not that, you idiot!"

"Or them hippies, because..."

"No, not that either..!" she cut him off impatiently.

"Then I don't know..."

Dottie made a visible effort to collect herself. "Do you really not understand what you've got here?"

Slugger was beginning to wonder if Dottie was a little unhinged. Or perhaps it was either the Curse or the Change? Granted, his expertise in those areas was limited but he'd always heard that women were apt to become irrational while under the influence of one or the other. But then another thought struck him.

Dorothy Doyle's husband had passed away at the same time as Slugger's wife, leaving his young widow with a tidy little farm, a modest herd of sleek Jersey cows and four stairstep boys. The mother had never known a sick day in her life and the children had never missed a day of school due to illness. The cows were prolific in both the healthy calves each unfailingly produced every spring as well as the untold gallons of creamy milk rich in butterfat content. The widow had maintained herself and her children by selling milk and butter from her cows and eggs from her flock of white Leghorns. Slugger had been one of the Widow Doyle's regular weekly customers from the beginning. They had helped each other get through the difficult mourning periods after the demise of their respective spouses and maintained a mutual fond regard for each other.

Over the years Slugger had heard recurrent rumors that Mrs. Doyle's success was due more to sinister arts than competence, but he had always discounted these as products of jealous and less sought-after competitors in the dairy and egg market. He suddenly realized that in all the years he'd known her, and watched her sons grow from boys to men, the woman herself had not aged a whisk. Now he wondered if the rumors had some basis in fact.

There was of course no way he could directly ask her any such question. On the other hand, he would be perfectly within his rights to ask her what she meant about Bernard.

"Good heavens, man... do you not know a shapeshifter when you see one?" Dottie demanded.

He considered her question for a moment and then chuckled. "Good 'un! You had me goin' for a minute, there!"

Dottie shook her head vigorously. "Laugh all you want, Edward Jones. This is a grave matter. That kind never show up unless they're up to something."

Dora timidly poked her head out the door. "Um... I've started the eggs. We're ready to eat anytime you are. It's a bit crowded though..."

"You and the boys go ahead so you can get started on your chores. We'll have ours later and do the washing up as well." Dottie waved her back inside and took Slugger's arm.

"Come. Let's you and me take a turn around the house til they're done and I'll explain a few things to you..."

As they paced, Slugger's air of amused disbelief gradually faded, replaced with apprehension and fear. Part of him desperately wanted to regard Dottie's words as pure fabrication. She was just having him on, that was all. He wasn't an educated man but he'd been around the track a time or two. He reminded himself that he really didn't believe—didn't _want_ to believe—in ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties or things that went bump in the night—no matter what fanciful tales and horror stories his aged granny had fed him as a child. There were no such things as supernatural beings... although the housekeeper would have him believe otherwise. They stopped at the southwest corner of the farmhouse and sat at a stone bench amidst overgrown shrubbery where they had a view of the drive between the farmhouse and the stableyard but could not themselves be easily seen.

"Any questions so far?" Dottie asked, still holding to Slugger's arm.

Slugger felt an overpowering urge to run for the hills. His orderly, uncomplicated world had just become a nonsensical place riddled with unknown phantasms and unseen dangers, wherein the new housekeeper was an undercover witch and the new stablehand some other kind of inhuman critter. He couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes but neither could he disavow her presence. Certainly he would have to take every precaution to avoid causing offense, however innocently, by word or deed. A strong sense of self-preservation suggested that acquiescence would be the prudent response. No sense stirring the pot until he had a clearer sense of what was in it.

"Edward," Dottie was addressing him gently. "Perhaps you could explain how he came to be here?"

That was easy enough... straightforward and factual. He began with Dora's ride yesterday and concluded with her having to retrieve her new hire from his early morning swim.

"He seems a nice enough lad, Dottie... are you sure...?

"Absolutely," she said firmly. "No doubt about it... except for one or two odd details... you say she discovered him _in_ the lake in the woods?"

"That's what she said."

Dottie closed her eyes. "Saints and goddesses preserve us!"

Slugger fully expected that next she'd be flinging her apron over her head and commence to keening. Instead, she cocked her head to one side and appeared perplexed. "You do recall _what that lake is_, don't you?"

"Blimey!" Slugger exclaimed. "I'd completely forgotten!"

Folklore had it that the pristine spring-fed pool nestled in the copse of trees was a clootie well... a holy place where a hundred years ago believers left offerings in hopes of having their desires fulfilled, their wishes granted, and their infirmities healed by the resident spirit. As the years had gone by, however, public access to the lake had become increasingly restricted as subsequent landowners replaced low drystone walls with stout wire fencing that discouraged trespassers. Too, younger generations were less inclined to hew to the old ways and eventually the existence of the well was known to only a few.

The Colonel had made it known, when he in turn acquired the property he christened 'Follyfoot Farm', that he had no wish to reignite any interest in the site. And rightly so, Slugger thought; they didn't want all manner of outsiders trampling around, gawking and leaving their bits and bobs everywhere. He had dutifully kept the secret of the clootie well hidden over the decades, even from his young charges, but wasn't surprised that Dottie knew of it.

Slugger came back to the present when he realized the woman was speaking.

"I can't imagine why he was left unharmed. Water spirits aren't known to tolerate them, you know."

"Water spirits?" Slugger gulped.

"Which indicates something's amiss. This is a most irregular situation."

_You can say that again,_ Slugger thought.

"But then again, that Myrtice always was a bit of a tart when it comes to younger men."

"Myrtice?"

"The spirit of the well, Edward, pay attention!"

"I'm trying!" _Believe me, I'm trying hard as I can!_

"Did anything else out of the ordinary happen yesterday?" Dottie inquired. "Any odd sightings perhaps?"

Slugger thought hard for a few minutes. "There was that strange horse Steve and Dora found in the pasture yesterday morning... not one of ours and not one we know from around here. They said they ain't never seen anythin' like it before it ran off. That boy claims it's his."

"Ah! So it's a horse, is it?" Dottie cried triumphantly. "Well there you have it! A baldfaced admission! Of all the cheek... not even trying to deny it!"

"What should we do about him, then?" he inquired plaintively.

"Nothing at present. Best leave this matter to the professionals. My associates and I will take up this matter at our regular board meeting tonight and we'll get to the bottom of it, never fear!" Dottie assured him briskly

"You mean... there's more of you? Like... a _coven_?!" Slugger squawked, aghast.

"Of course there're others!" Dottie scoffed. "I'll have you know we're a respectable organization just like the sewing circle, the book club, the ladies' hospital auxiliary..."

"I get the picture."

"We have monthly meetings with parliamentary rules, elected officers and everything... Why, there's Mrs. Kennedy, Mrs. Holmes, Lady Butler, Mrs..."

"Please... no more names. I don't want to know!" Slugger appealed. He'd never again be able to look upon the postmistress or the butcher's wife in exactly the same way.

"And Edward... we don't use the word _'coven'_ anymore. It's considered rude and prejudicial nowadays."

"Sorry! Sorry!"

**Meanwhile, back in the kitchen...** Ron studied the new arrival with intense curiosity and deduced right away what must have occurred. Judging by the ripe bruises and plethora of plasters decorating Steve, he concluded that Steve must have been either met his match or had been bested in that exchange—probably why he didn't want to discuss it. Steve had never lost a fistfight that Ron knew of and he figured the other's pride had been severely tested. It must have been one hell of a scuffle and Ron regretted having missed it. Moreover, there had to be a juicy story behind why it had come about. _Still... a shrimp like that... must be a total loony to have taken on Steve! And why does the kitchen smell like coconuts?_

Ron himself wasn't one of Mrs. Doyle's favorite people; he knew that, but he'd never caused her to react the way she just had. Although he wasn't necessarily the sharpest knife in the drawer—which he also knew—Ron had an advantage over Steve in that he was sensitive to potentially explosive situations which Steve was usually too busy brooding to spot. He possessed a congenital ability to create mischief and a concomitant compulsion to do so. He simply couldn't help himself. Something about the newcomer had set Steve off and wasn't sitting right with Mrs. Doyle. Ron meant to find out what that something might be and the most rewarding way of exploiting it.

Dora could plainly see what bubbled behind Ron's sly expression and steeled herself to counteract the insensitive questions and biting comments sure to fly from his totally tactless mouth. Even after Dottie and Slugger had withdrawn, Bernard remained poised for flight until Dora herded him into the room and indicated the empty chair next to Ron. Puzzling over Bernard's and Dottie's extraordinary reactions to each other, she determined to keep the introductions simple—the less said, the better... at least until she found out what was going on.

"Ron, this is Bernard. He'll be helping out temporarily until we can interview some more applicants." _If we _have_ more applicants! _"Bernard, meet Ron Stryker. He also lives and works here." The two shook hands.

Even though Steve had apologized the night before for his behavior, Dora was still ticked off and a little apprehensive that he might be tempted to renew hostilities now that he couldn't very well ignore Bernard's presence directly across the table from him. But whatever Steve might have been feeling or thinking, he was keeping his face carefully neutral. Ron, too, seemed to have abandoned his usual penchant for rude inquisitioning and ascerbic remarks and was conducting himself with unusual restraint. He and Steve exchanged mild commentary mostly concerning work to be done that day. Bernard said nothing at all.

Dora was torn between attending to the ham and bacon crisping nicely on the stove and trying to identify the unusual but quite distinct aura of peace and polite restraint that had descended upon the room. Pouring the bowl of beaten eggs into the second frying pan, she noticed Dottie had added grated sharp cheddar cheese, minced onion and a dash of parsley to the mix. She would never have thought of doing that.

Steve and Ron discussed football scores quietly and Bernard listened without participating while Dora finished cooking and went to see about Slugger and Dottie. Steve was about get two extra chairs from the disused dining room when Dora returned and informed him there wouldn't be any need. Hearing that the housekeeper wouldn't be returning to the kitchen during the meal, Bernard relaxed his watchfulness. Dora slid the scrambled eggs from the pan to the serving bowl, then retrieved the second skillet to portion out the ham. Bernard looked at at the fried meat in dismay and back up at Dora in mute appeal. A light bulb came on.

"Oh," she said softly. "Oh... are you're... um... a vegetarian?"

He nodded his head affirmatively. "No problem. I'm fine with toast and jelly and eggs."

Ron looked at Bernard as if he were an alien just landed from another planet. He knew there were people who didn't eat meat, some who wouldn't even eat eggs, but he had never met one.

"There's some corn flakes in the pantry," Dora said. "Will that do you? Or I could fix some oatmeal."

"Cereal would be great, thanks."

Dora got a spoon and soup bowl from the sideboard then went to the pantry and returned with a packet of corn flakes and a box of raisins. Steve and Ron were already digging in as she seated herself and poured another mug of tea. Conversation resumed about the weather, the price of feed, yesterday's fence mending.

With breakfast out of the way and the table cleared, Steve and Ron trooped outside to begin morning chores while Dora detained Bernard with a demand he put on some footwear. He protested but she insisted, frowning when he returned from upstairs with trainers. "Not the best choice for riding—they can slip through the irons too easily. Boots with heels would be safer."

Bernard didn't bother to rebut that she herself wasn't wearing boots. "Oh! I'm gonna get to ride?" he asked brightly.

"If I decide I need help with the boarders, yes. _After_ mucking out! You _do_ ride, I suppose?"

"Yes, Dora. I _do_ ride."

**Field Journal: Monday, September 2, 1974 • 8:00am**

**Atmospheric conditions:** Mostly sunny, not as chilly

**Immediate location:** Downstairs bathroom.

**Plan(s):** Looks like I'm to be teamed up with Dora first. Today I hope to find out: Her satisfaction with current circumstances and life in general. What she would change if she could. Her views of the future as an individual, as a possible couple. Her complaints about Steve, if any. No man is exempt from complaints—just ask any woman!

Oh boy! I get to ride. Maybe. Almost my very favorite thing as I do love horses. (Well... yeah... that would make sense, wouldn't it?) Mucking out, on the other hand, is definitely not one of my favorite things and it's been years since I've had to do it. I suppose I'll manage.

**Goal: **I'd like to get Dora to consider areas/possibilities re self-improvement... or perhaps I mean self-promotion. Maybe she hasn't expressed herself clearly enough to Steve. Have to remember that in this place and time women are much more hesitant about revealing their emotions to men—before they're married to them, anyway! Afterwards it's no holds barred.

**Overall mood assessment:** Steve = grouchy and touchy. Dora = frazzled but coping. Ron = puzzled and conniving. Slugger = confused and nervous. The housekeeper = surprised and pugnacious. Me = startled and defensive. This could be a very interesting day.

**Technical issues:** Discreetly resorted to a little bit of cheating at the breakfast table in the interest of preserving group equanimity.

**Observations:** SHE could've warned me about a Witch in the household—how could SHE not have known? Unless this one was assigned as a spy or a monitor—either way, I'm not pleased about it. And why couldn't this one have a standard cat like everybody else? What's with the daemon cow already?

How am I supposed to work with a Witch giving me the stinkeye? It's like trying to make love to your wife with your mother-in-law in the room. Not only that, she's probably not only going to get in my way but likely will do something unpleasant to me at the first opportunity. They think they're so superior...

AND... I was right about the Otherness in the house... if that Ron doesn't have an imp or two in his family's woodpile, then I'm a monkey's uncle. Or it could be leprechaun, considering the red hair. Whatever... another potential source of trouble.

**Note to self:** w00t! The water in the big lake is cold enough to compromise one's manhood but naturally I wasn't going admit that to the girl. Also, a very nasty little kelpie lives there. Only out of professional courtesy and a regard for our racial similarity did she consent to leave me unmolested. (In future, will swim in small lake only.)

Also, I feel like I've been run over by a garbage truck. My only consolation is that Steve probably feels a lot worse. Ha ha.

This is not the most comfortable venue for journaling but no other private place is available until bedtime. Suspect I'll be requiring quite a few bathroom interludes.

CHAPTER 7:_**"The impossible has a kind of integrity which the merely improbable lacks"**_ • Douglas Adams

**From their observation post, Slugger and Dottie had watched** first one pair and then the second pair of young people exit the house by the kitchen door and enter the stableyard. They then circled around to the front of the house and re-entered by the east door which opened into the foyer. Dottie peeked through the open door to the parlor, at the moment emptied of furniture and smelling of fresh paint.

"What's going on in here?" Dottie asked.

"Renovatin', she calls it," Slugger grumbled. "Redecoratin', too. Made us drag everything out and put it in the dining room. Next we'll be havin' to shove it all back it."

"Ah," was all Dottie said.

Reclaiming the kitchen, Slugger and Dottie set about enjoying their own breakfast. The earlier diners had cleaned up after themselves, putting their dishes and cutlery to soak in hot soapy water in the scullery's galvanized sink. The table had been reset for two and someone—most likely Dora—had thoughtfully popped pie tins covered with foil into the warming oven. A fresh pot of tea reposed under a knitted cozy.

His nervousness at Dottie's revelations subsiding, Slugger burned with questions. Whether or not he was prepared to accept what she said as fact rather than fiction, he realized that it would be to his advantage to amass as much information as he could absorb about this cuckoo's egg that had fallen into his nest.

Dottie distributed the contents of the pie tins equally onto two serving plates and poured tea.

"Not sayin' yer a liar, Dottie," Slugger was nodding his head, "but I'm findin' all this real hard to believe. I keep thinkin' I'm in a dream an' I'm gonna wake up soon. I mean, a boy what turns into a brute... who would believe that? That's only in fairytales! An' now yer sayin' yer a witch... after all these years."

Dottie regarded her friend with compassion, knowing he was upset but doing his best to put on a brave front. "Edward... look at me. It didn't happen overnight, you know. I was born a witch and have been one all along. I'm still me—good old Dottie. Nothing's changed there. I know what people have said about me over the years and I just let it slide like water off a duck's back. But whatever you may've heard about my girls is untrue... they're just ordinary cows. Well, except for Queen Maude, of course."

"Dottie... what if he...' Slugger flapped his hands around, unable to actually say the words.

"It's called 'morphing' and I doubt it'll be doing that in front of you," she said drily. "It's too offputting for the Normals, you see. But Edward, I'm glad you're asking these questions... shows you've taken me seriously."

"Is he... erm... dangerous? Shouldn't we call the polis... or somebody?"

Dottie pursed her lips. "Dangerous? No. I shouldn't think so... but I won't know for certain until I've assembled a few more facts. Frankly, I'm much more concerned with _why_ he's here rather than _what_ he is. Think very hard, Edward... have you noticed anything out of the ordinary since he arrived? Anyone behaving differently from the way they normally do?"

Slugger furrowed his brow and concentrated. "Well... now that you mention it... after the fight was over last night and we was all there in the kitchen... Dora got all calmed down and weren't weepy like she usually is... and Steve, he got over bein' mad right quick. It weren't natural. None of it. Normally they'd keep right flappin' on until bedtime." Though hesitant to admit that he'd felt a change come over himself as well, he described as best he could how, directly after shaking hands with Bernard, he was seized with a determination to take charge, to exert authority. "Even got to feelin' I was stronger, smarter than I know I am," he admitted with chagrin.

"That's just the pheromones. His kind seem to be endowed with an overabundance of them," Dottie said.

"The fair 'o whats?"

"Chemistry, Edward... body chemistry released into the air. It's a natural biological function that triggers instincts and behavior between two beings of the same specie.

"What do they smell like?" In his mind Slugger was searching for a parallel to more familiar bodily exudations such as bad breath, underarm odor and flatulence—all of which were involuntary but could be masked or controlled to some extent.

"Mostly there's no odor... but the ones that do have a scent smell differently to different people and they're usually benign."

"You mean... one person might smell hay and someone else might smell apples or cinnamon?"

"Yes... exactly. It works the same way as smelling something good might make you drool. But it's the ones you _can't_ smell you've got to worry about... these are very powerful attractants that can affect the way you think and feel while you're in their presence. Generally, however, it wears off rather quickly... unless there's direct physical contact, in which case the effects might last a day or two and could lead you to do things you mightn't ordinarily do."

Slugger prickled with alarm. "Can you catch 'em by just shakin' hands?"

"You don't exactly 'catch' anything but, yes, any kind of touching can intensify the effect. As for any prolonged intimate contact... kissing, for instance... well, his kind can be deceptively charming—as many a girl has discovered to her later regret. Need I explain further?"

No, she did not need to explain. The one salient fact that Slugger did manage to extract from all this was that Dora could be at risk and he wasn't having that... _not on his watch!_

"Is there nothing to be done about it?" Slugger fretted.

"There's always been controversy over pheromone emissions," Dottie admitted. "It's not yet understood whether these are voluntary or involuntary. Scientists are working to isolate the chemical compositions and expect to someday create synthesized pheromones for practical application in agronomy and entomology..."

Slugger held up a hand. "Dottie... I'm a simple man. I don't understand anythin' yer sayin'. All I want to know is, is it safe to be around him? He ain't contagious, is he?"

"No, Edward, it's not like a disease that can be transmitted. My advice to you, though..." Dottie quipped, "... is don't kiss him!"

"I'll keep that in mind," Slugger joked back, thinking uneasily... _but what if Dora did?_ Not that he could envision that happening.

They both stood and carried their dishes into the scullery, continuing their conversation as they fell easily into the washing up routine as if they'd been doing so for years.

Slugger thought of something else. "His eyes keep changin' color, too... first they're gray, then they're green... and not always the same green, either."

"That has to do with chromatophores, thermochromatic elements and the presence of a tapetum lucidum—all of which do not naturally occur in humans. He almost certainly can see in the dark."

Slugger understood only part of this... the part that explained why Steve was so bunged up and Bernard wasn't. Had the fight occurred in broad daylight, Bernard wouldn't have stood a chance. Maybe.

"So... he ain't... human?"

"Of course he is, Edward... well, in most respects. So am I. We just have a little something extra... what the Cajun French call 'lagniappe' "

There were a few other points Dottie considered presenting, but decided the poor man had had enough unpleasant news thrown at him for the time being.

"Dottie... how come you to know so much about science and such?"

"I wasn't always a farmer's wife, you know. Once upon a time I was at university with a view toward becoming a biochemist and saving the world with my discoveries. Even though I was far brighter than most who applied, the only reason I was accepted was that so many of our boys were off to war and they were desperate to fill the rolls... even if they were reduced to admitting _women_ to their sacred halls of academe." Dottie rolled her eyes as the scorn rolled off her tongue. Although her face showed nothing, Slugger was certain he detected both bitterness and regret.

"What happened?"

Dottie gave him a sideways glance. "Donal Doyle is what happened. You can guess the rest. I was summarily ejected from uni as soon as I started showing. But he did the right thing by me. I was already five months gone when we made it legal."

"But couldn't you have gone back and finished?"

Dottie shrugged. "Could have tried, I suppose, but I chose another path... and never looked back. Turned out I was much better suited to farm life than a laboratory. And I wouldn't have traded Donal or any of our boys for all the degrees at Oxford."

She let the water out of the sink and briskly dried her hands on her apron. "Now then, if you would kindly directly me to where you keep the Hoover and the cleaning supplies, I've work to do."

**Bernard had refused to enter the yard** until Steve had removed Queen Maude to the west pasture with assurances from Dottie that the cow wouldn't stray even if there was a fence down. As they walked toward the feedroom, Bernard commented on the obviously recent addition to the buildings where several sleek well-bred heads poked out inquiringly over Dutch doors.

Dora explained that her original plans for additional stabling for boarders had allowed for only four new boxes between the donkey pen and the hay barn, all facing inwards toward the enclosed yard. That plan had been amended so that a breezeway with four boxes on either side, facing each other, opened into the yard at one end and the paddock at the other. A small odd-shaped room on the yard side served as a separate tackroom.

"Those eight are here for schooling. I normally work with them in the afternoons. Steve, too, if he has time. Sometimes Ron. During school hols we hold riding classes for children. Slugger and Hazel handle those. We're hoping that eventually we'll take in enough—with boarding, training and riding lessons for children and adults—to cover the costs of the rescue and retirement side of our farm."

"Who's Hazel?"

"Someone else who lives here. It was her room you slept in last night. It's her gap year, you see, and she's traveling on the Continent."

The feedroom was a semi-enclosed area within the hay storage barn, with barrels and sacks of feed lined up neatly against two walls and stacks of galvanized pails and plastic tubs along a third. Dora outlined the usual daily routine for Bernard's benefit while dispensing instructions about mixing up mash and measuring oats and bran into tubs.

After all the animals had been fed, they would be turned out of their stalls and boxes into the yard. The boarders had their own paddock separate from the permanent residents. Any animals requiring additional attention would be tethered to posts and the rest walked out to pasture for the day. Then all the stalls and boxes would be mucked out and replenished with fresh straw. When that was done, everyone would disperse and get on with whatever other chores or business were on tap for the day. At appropriate intervals there would be tea and lunch breaks. Depending on the season and weather conditions, some or all of the equine residents would brought back in for the night and settled in their boxes before their caretakers went to their supper.

As Dora and Bernard filled tubs, Steve and Ron shuttled them out to the permanent residents and returned empty ones. Dora noted that Steve was moving much more slowly than usual and limping. She wished there was something she could do to ease his discomfort.

"We'll do the boarders last while Steve and Ron turn ours out into the yard." Dora indicated a stack of plastic buckets numbered one through eight in large white letters. "They get a different formulation from ours as they're more active."

"A lot of work for just five people," Bernard offered.

"We've only just started advertising for helpers but haven't got any suitable ones yet. How long do you think you'll be staying?"

"Not long. However long it takes. Maybe by then you won't need me."

"It remains to be seen if we need you now," Dora said tartly. "We don't really know yet how useful you are, do we?" Her tone was playful.

Bernard laughed. "I guess we'll find out."

"So where are you from?"

"Like I said, I'm from the future..."

Dora laughed. "Yes, yes... and you're here to help. Very funny."

"Why doesn't anyone believe me?" Bernard asked in an aggrieved tone.

"Seriously... who is Bernard when he's at home?"

"Bernard is a postgraduate psychology major, on sabbatical at the moment."

"And what is Bernard doing here, of all places?"

"Bernard is researching contemporary mating rituals of young adults in the United Kingdom for his Master's thesis."

"I see," said Dora. "And have you reached any conclusions so far?"

"Not yet. I'm just getting started."

"Well, I don't expect you'll find much material around here. We're a dull lot in comparison to other places."

"You never know."

"Where are you from, really?"

"Montana... that's one of the Rocky Mountain states... we call it the 'Big Sky' country."

"Really? Your accent sounds somewhat familiar... almost like my friend Elle's, except she's from Louisiana. That's in the south, though, isn't it?"

"Elle?"

"Elayne... Lady Elayne Butler."

"Oh well... what you're hearing is the French influence, then. Cajun French in the south and Metis French in the west."

"You speak French?"

Bernard grinned. "Nothing you'd recognize, _chérie_."

When Bernard made no further comment, Dora continued. "My father's in the diplomatic corp. He'll be retiring next year and he and my mother have bought a villa in Costa de Almeria... that's in Spain."

"You must have seen a lot of the world, then."

Dora gave him a wistful, sad look. "Not really, no. I was always left behind at boarding school. I'm not very close to my parents. In fact, I hardly know them at all. Certainly they don't know me. I doubt they ever will."

"I see."

"You'll be going back to university at summer's end?"

"Yep. Got my BSc and going for a Masters, then eventually a Psy.D in interspecies behavioral theory."

Dora was mightily impressed though not familiar with the discipline. "What's that?"

"The dynamics of behavior patterns in both animals and humans and how they relate to each other."

"Oh."

"Why aren't you in college yourself, Dora?"

"My parents had planned for me to continue on to university but then I came here instead and decided to stay."

"So you're not interested in higher education?"

"I suppose I've given up on it." Dora changed the subject. "I've only met a few Americans and there's Elayne, of course... but you're not like any of them."

"Do I seem that much different?"

"Yes... but I'm not sure why."

"Your friend... she live around here?"

"Oh yes... she's married to Sir Hughes Butler. Their estate is just to the west of here. He was a widower, you see, and everyone was shocked when he brought back an American bride from the States," Dora explained. "She's a tiny bit, well... not refined enough to suit the tastes of some. But she and I get on famously. In fact, she's giving me a birthday party next Sunday at Butler Hall. You'll probably get to meet her before then."

"Not if I can help it," Bernard muttered under his breath.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, I'm looking forward to it. So what's with you and Steve. Is he, like, your main squeeze?" Hoping it wasn't too obvious a personal question.

"My what?"

"You know... your boyfriend... your fella?"

Dora's face clouded and she looked a bit sad. "No. Not really. He's more like... my best friend. I... it's complicated. We do care for each other, it's true... but... it's more or less one-sided, I'm afraid," she explained ruefully, adding, "We've never even been out on a date."

"I see. Have you ever thought of asking _him_ out... or telling him how _you_ feel?"

"What?! Certainly not. Maybe that's how you do things where you're from, but we're more... conventional, I suppose."

"Maybe you need a little unconventionality in your life, cupcake. Live a little. Let your hair down and your feelings out."

"I can't. I just... can't."

By the time Dora and Bernard had finished feeding the eight boarders and placed tight-fitting lids on the bins to discourage rodents, Steve had turned out all the other horses, ponies and donkeys. Ron had sloped off for a quick smoke before mucking out got underway. Usually it was Steve and Dora who took the animals out to pasture but today Steve asked her if she minded if Bernard accompany him instead.

Bernard and Steve happened to be standing side by side when the latter made his request. It was Dora's first opportunity to compare the two individuals first hand. With a jolt she realized that while her heart still yearned for her first love, her head was harboring an inexplicable interest in the short blonde American who had conveniently dropped into her world just as she was on the brink of making a life-altering decision. He had an appeal she couldn't quite put her finger on, and she couldn't just turn off her feelings for Steve like a light switch but still... Slightly put out and not a little worried at the possibility of a resumption of enmity, she lied and said she didn't mind at all.

**Harboring a lingering resentment over yesterday's events** and now having this stranger imposed on his fiefdom, Steve had recognized his best recourse would be to go with flow for the time being. He determined that he first needed to accumulate background information on the interloper in order to establish reasonable cause for dismissal. And the only way to do that was to strike up a conversation. Steve didn't consider himself especially shy. He could hold his own in social discourse as long as someone else introduced the topic, but he was rubbish at starting up one on his own. Sometimes he wished he was more like Ron; Ron could to talk to anyone anywhere, anytime about anything... whether he knew the person or not.

As they headed toward the east pasture with the small herd following attentively, eager to get to their grass banquet, Steve cast about for an opening gambit.

"Look... I'm really sorry about last night... I know I've got a bad temper..."

"So I noticed," Bernard responded.

"If Dora had told me first..."

"Dude, it's okay. I understand. I might've reacted the same in your sneakers."

"You and Dora've hit it off, looks like." Steve's tone was noncommittal.

"Yeah. She's a sweet kid. Pretty, too."

"Don't go getting any ideas, Yank..." Steve bristled.

Bernard grinned. "Take it easy, Sparky. I'm not here to poach on your patch."

They had reached the pasture and the animals needed no urging to file through the gate, nipping and jostling each other in their haste to get to the deep green grass rippling in the breeze. Steve swung closed the big gate and leaned against it, crossing his arms on the top rail. Bernard followed suit after pulling off his trainers and socks and wiggling his toes in the hoof-beaten dust of the track.

Had an uninformed witness then been called upon to identify which young man was the scholar and which one the knockabout prison parolee, he would invariably have made the wrong choice. Always meticulously conservative about his personal appearance, Steve—aside from his scuffed boots—wore his usual workaday garb of clean, pressed denims, checked cotton shirt neatly tucked in and matching jumper. His aversion to patched or stained clothing was a well-known and continuing source of amusement to Slugger, who was in charge of laundry. Steve's heavy sable hair, though almost shoulder length, he kept regularly trimmed and styled and frequently combed. And he was always cleanly shaven.

Hanging on the gate next to Steve, Bernard was the very antithesis of tidiness starting with  
his untamed blonde mop. Someone else's castoff blue workshirt—several sizes too big for him—he wore unbuttoned over a faded brown teeshirt bearing a Newcastle Brown Ale logo, neither one tucked in. (Steve despised tees with designs on them and refused to wear them.) Bernard's bell-bottomed jeans were a snug fit but sported multiple patches on the seat and knees, which clearly identified them as having previously belonged in Ron's teenage wardrobe.

Bernard rested his chin on his crossed arms and watched with pleasure as the five youngest and most fit animals, led by the redgold Anglo-Arab, separated from the band and tore off at a lope just for the sheer joy of it.

"Aren't those a little out of place in this outfit?" he asked.

"Yes... well, they're our personal mounts except for the gray pony, Folly... he's just three. The Arab is Dora's —that's Copper. The Appaloosa is mine—he's called Alex. The black gelding is Buddy... we're not too sure what he is... he's Ron's. The piebald Connemara is Peanut; he's Hazel's but she's outgrown him and needs to move up."

Bernard's eyes followed Copper as he led the little group on a circuit of the pasture.

"Does she ever show him?"

"Dora and Copper, you mean? She has a few times but not lately. Do you know much about competition riding?"

"Very little."

"Dora's has a real knack for schooling horses, and we started taking in boarders for training to make money. But it takes a tremendous amount of time and energy and attention. She barely has a social life anymore."

"That a problem for you?" Bernard inquired ingenuously.

There was a moment of silence as Steve mulled this over. "Why should it be?"

"So tell me about this farm and how you all came to be living here," Bernard asked a few minutes later.

Steve debated just how much information he was willing to part with. Too much and every golddigger in the country would come sniffing around after Dora's considerable inheritance. "Originally it was just a hobby farm of Dora's uncle's for horses no one else wanted—old, sick, lame, abused or just retired. Slugger ran it for Colonel Maddocks—that's Dora's uncle who died last year. Ron's been around since he was a teenager. Dora came to live here three years ago and me right after that. Then Hazel a year and half ago. That's about it. It belongs to Dora now and she came into a bit of money last year when her uncle passed. She had the old farmhouse fixed up so that we could all live in it."

"Are you all, like, orphans or something?"

"As good as," Steve answered darkly but didn't elaborate.

"This sure is a nice little farm... quiet, peaceful... I can see why anyone would be content living here. Shame it can't last forever."

As intended, Steve swallowed the hook. "What do you mean, it won't last?"

Bernard turned his head to look directly at him. "Progress, mainly, whether you want it or not. Population growth, people needing homes and room to build them. New businesses and industries competing for space. Bigger government, higher taxes. Corporate agriculture squeezing out family farms. Not just here but in my country, too. And don't even get me started on environmental issues!"

Steve knew that everything Bernard said was true; no argument there.

"Even if Dora had a whopping big inheritance..."

"Which is none of your business."

"...which is none of my business, it won't last forever supporting a non-productive farm. Our grandparents were probably the last generation in any first-world nation that depended on horsepower. Folks will still keep horses for pleasure as long as they can afford to, but with the cost of living always on the rise, that'll be what they choose to sacrifice when it comes to that or college educations for their kids."

This, too, Steve knew to be the truth, but he felt he had to make some sort of rebuttal in defense of his home.

"And your point is...?"

"Where do you all go from here? What do you plan on doing after this?" Bernard waved an arm to indicate the farm around them.

A minute evolved as Steve pondered this question that no one had ever bothered to ask him before, but that he had often asked himself. His face flushed and when he spoke, it was with forced casualness.

"There is no 'from here' or 'after this'. This is home. This is it," he finally admitted.

"And you're satisfied with this?"

"No... I don't know. I never finished school. There were... complications," Steve answered.

"You ever thought about going back?"

"To school, you mean? No. Why? What good would that do me, anyway?"

Bernard stooped to snap off a grass stalk and chewed on the crisp end for a few moments before answering.

"First off, you'd feel better about yourself."

"I feel fine about myself."

"Ya think?"

"Anyway, I wouldn't know where to begin."

"You could go to adult night classes and get a high school equivalency certificate or whatever you call it here. From there you could go on to community college and get a degree in something useful... something you'd enjoy doing."

"I like what I'm doing, working with horses."

"Well, that's great as far it goes, Steve, but what if your plan to stay forever or for as long it lasts doesn't work out? Why not take a course in horse husbandry or equine veterinary technician... or even go on to university and become a veterinarian yourself. I'll bet Dora would back you up on that. Think of the money you'd save on vet bills!"

"What's she got to do with anything?" Steve gritted his teeth.

"Aren't you two, like, a couple?"

"No. She's not my girlfriend. I just work here."

"Oh. Well. Sorry I misspoke." Bernard's next question was calculated to get a rise out of Steve and it did. "Pretty girl like that, you'd think she'd be married by now. Is she dating anyone?" he asked casually.

"Look, she's not for the likes of you... or me." The chill in Steve's tone was unmistakeable. "Her folks are quality... upper class. She's led a sheltered life. She's nothing like the kind of girls you probably associate with."

"What kind of girls might that be?" Bernard inquired blandly.

Steve was curt. "Fast girls. Party girls. The kind of tarts you'd expect to find swarming at a fancy university like yours. She's nothing like that. You leave her alone."

Oh ho. So he'd been eavesdropping after all and had overheard part of Dora and Bernard's conversation about school.

"Chill out, man. I told you, I'm not after your woman."

"She's not my..."

"Yeah, yeah... I hear ya talkin'. Can't live with her, but can't live without her either, is that it?"

Steve gave Bernard a long look that betrayed the longing and conflict in his brown eyes. "Something like that."

"In any case, I don't see how I could manage going back to school now. No time," Steve said brusquely, intending to banish the incipient notion. "We'd better finish up here. Plenty more to do." But the proverbial mustard seed had been sown and was already germinating.

They were coming up on the house and courtyard, where Bernard paused to look around and assure himself there were no marauding cows on the loose, and to put his socks and trainers back on. Conversation ceased as they rejoined Dora and Ron and got on with the neverending joy of trundling dung from one location to another. With that accomplished, Ron took himself off to the roof of the hay barn to patch a leak. Presently the sound of hammering and loud singing echoed around the empty yard. Dora went to attend to one of the boarders and Steve led Bernard to the next chore: forking manure onto a flatbed trailer which a neighboring farmer fetched once a week to spread on his fields. They worked in silence for a while until Steve got over his snit.

"You seem to know your way around a manure fork," Steve commented grudgingly.

"I should hope so. I was mostly raised on a ranch and live on one now."

"You're a farmboy?" Steve seemed somewhat taken aback.

"Ranch," Bernard corrected. "Cattle country. Montana. You?"

"Bred and born right here in Yorkshire. Never been out of England. I would've taken you for one of those hippies."

"Who, moi? What makes you think that?"

"That feather thing... does it mean something?"

"Sure. It's my talisman. Connects me with my tribe, sort of."

"Tribe? Are you an Indian? You don't look like one."

"Guess I should have said 'my clan' or 'my people.' A cultural association, in any case. Feather symbology features in a lot of cultures... like finger rings. A ring can be no more than personal adornment... or it can indicate status. Everyone has some sort of cultural association."

"I don't," said Steve.

"Of course you do," Bernard said. "We all do... and countless subassociations within those. The family you were born into is your first association. When you marry, then you and your wife have formed a new association of two and you owe loyalty to each other. Beyond that, you now have an association with her family. That's three right there. Each new one overlaps one or more existing ones, but doesn't exclude them."

"What if you don't have a wife... or a family?"

Bernard shrugged. "Seems like you have one with the people here, the ones you live with. You care about them; they care about you. That's an association, see?"

"All this in a feather, huh?" Steve mocked.

Little further conversation passed between them until the remaining manure had been transferred to the wagon and Slugger called them all in for a break with the bell by the kitchen door. As they headed toward the farmhouse, Steve asked Bernard what sort of aftershave he was wearing.

"Pardon me?"

"You know... cologne... it smells, well, a bit cinnamony."

"I don't wear aftershave, Steve... because I don't shave."

Steve pondered this peculiar morsel of intel while unconsciously rubbing his still aching jaw. Already the details of the previous night's contretemps were receding into hazy memory. Deep in his subconsciousness he vaguely understood that despite the ferocious amount of noise he and Bernard had been generating up there in the darkness of the loft, neither one had actually landed a blow on the other until they'd arrived at the bottom of the stairs and Steve had got his hands around Bernard's neck. On a conscious level, however, he recalled only that this small fellow had fought like a wildcat when cornered. That alone was worthy of admiration and even a grudging respect.

During the course of this morning's conversation Steve repeatedly had to remind himself just why it was that he wasn't supposed to like this person because... strange as may be... he was actually beginning to like him.

**Ron, as usual, was Johnny on the spot for tea break,** closely followed by Steve and Dora. Bernard hung back at the door until Dora came back outside to coax him in, assuring him that Mrs. Doyle was upstairs changing out bed linens and would be remaining there.

Afterwards, fortified with tea and scones, Steve excused himself to walk the fence line again in the west pasture to look for other weak spots and Slugger detailed Bernard and Ron to attend the mess in the loft while Dora assumed to her schooling duties.

As they approached the foot of the staircase to the loft, Ron came upon the first of the shotgun shells littering the steps. "Gunfight at the Follyfoot corral?" he queried with raised brows, stooping to start picking them up.

"A minor misunderstanding," Bernard replied equably. "All straightened out now."

They reached the top of the stairs, jeans pockets stuffed with shells. Ron looked around at the evidence of an epic struggle and whistled—the chair reduced to matchsticks, the dresser leaning precariously on its three remaining legs, the jagged edges of the blown out window, the pockmarked walls, the floor strewn with broken glass, feathers exploded from tears in the mattress ticking, and yet more shells. Ron shook his head and automatically reached for his smokes.

"I wouldn't," Bernard advised, pointing to the lantern lying on the floor, its globe and reservoir shattered. "Besides, those things'll kill ya."

Ron suddenly realized the loft reeked of kerosene and hastily put away his cigarettes and lighter, simultaneously remembering that he was now strictly forbidden to smoke in the stables or the barn. Instead, he leaned against the window casing and frankly studied his co-worker. "Before we get started, you wanna explain what happened here yesterday?"

Bernard gave him a potted account of the 'misunderstanding' as together they picked up the ruined mattress, shaking off glass shards and restoring it to the frame, doing the same with the torn bed pillow and blanket and sheets. Ron eyed brown flecks that looked suspiciously like dried blood. "Yours or his?" he inquired.

Bernard grinned. "His, mostly. Slugger went through a whole can of Band-Aids fixing him up. I was too busy trying to avoid getting hit. Your Steve is a dangerous man."

Ron shrugged. "Our Steve is an unhappy man... and I suspect he's just got a whole lot more unhappy now that you're here. You don't want to get on his bad side," he warned, "or next time it'll be your blood that gets splashed all over the place. I suppose we'd best get some brooms and buckets and get to work."

Bernard agreed. "Looks like most of the glass fell outside into the yard. You must have noticed it this morning."

"Did... and swept it up right quick like. Looked up and seen the window was out."

"Didn't you wonder why?"

"Not especially, no. Wouldn't be the first time old Stevoh pitched something through it in one of his rages."

"You been working here long?"

"Used to come in after school for a bit of pocket money, then got my leaving certificate and went off for a year to see the sights, you know? Came back and started working here full time, so I'd already been here two years before Steve and Dora came."

"So you guys get along okay? He difficult to work with?"

Ron hedged. "We get along well enough when we're working. Outside... well, you know... I have me own mates in town, blokes I grew up with. Not his kind. Steve don't have any friends. He keeps himself to himself."

"What about Dora? Do you like working with her... _for_ her."

"She's okay. Not too bossy like some women... unless she's in a mood. Why're you asking so many questions?"

"Just trying to get a handle on the pecking order around here."

Ron grimaced. "I reckon I'm at the bottom of the heap. Always have been. Always will be. Of course, now you're here, I guess I'm not at the bottom no more..."

"Don't get too comfortable in your promotion, old son. I won't be here all that long," Bernard said. "At least, I'm not planning on it."

Ron regarded him suspiciously, "Why did you bother coming here at all, then?"

"Can you keep a secret?"

Ron burned with curiosity, his eyes going wide. "Sure. Sure. Won't tell a bloomin' soul!"

"I'm on a covert mission to divert certain parties from a path of destruction and correct an imbalance in the historical continuum," Bernard intoned conspiratorially, perfectly deadpan.

"You mean you're, like, a secret agent? A government spy?"

"Something like that... only you can't tell anybody, right?"

Ron was twitching with excitement. "You can count on me, mate!"

**Field Journal: Monday, September 2, 1974 • 11:30am**

**Atmospheric conditions: **Sunny and mild.

**Immediate location: **Downstairs bathroom. Again.

**General:** Very busy first day... and it's only half over! Dora's fairly easy to draw out—bright and educated to a reasonable degree. Why is she hiding her light under a barrel on this hardscrabble farm? What keeps her here? She seems totally detached from her parents and her former status in higher society. Ordinarily I wouldn't consider this a healthy state of affairs but then I didn't grow up in a culture that doesn't recognize the needs of small children to bond with their parents and sends them away to school instead. Definitely NOT healthy!

Steve's not so easy to get to know—a classic loner type but at least he made an effort to communicate. Good. Saves me the trouble ofmaneuvering him into a dialogue. Believe I managed to pound the idea of higher education firmly into his head. We'll see if anything comes of it. Smart kid like that could do well for himself if he can be made to believe that he can... and to understand what he's got to do to get there.

What keeps the rest of them here? The old man and Steve, understandable—no other place to go and no other viable skills. Ron and Hazel an unknown quantities at present.

No illumination was shed on the Steve/Dora thing. They both claim they're not lovers or even friends with benefits. Are they really in love with each other or just coasting in a comfort zone of familiarity? If so, why the jealousy toward me, of all people? Mom used to say I was so homely she had to tie a porkchop on a string around my neck just so the dog would play with me.

**Observation:** Don't know what got into me to say what I did to Ron... except that he's just so temptingly gullible. Guess I was just overcome with the absurdity of my situation... trapped in a Jane Austen novel 36 years from home! All these unwritten social mores about who has to say what to whom first! Don't these kids know they're living in the Age of Aquarius? Honestly, what is so damned hard about simply telling it like it is?

**Note to self:** Not particularly good news that "Stevoh" is prone to throwing things out of windows. Next time it might be me. Better tread carefully around him—he's temperamental as a pit bull, a walking incendiary.

I was waiting for Elayne to turn up and, lo and behold, here she is... yet another Witch to brighten my day. Bet Dora doesn't have a clue about either one. This could get ugly.

CHAPTER 8: _**"Philosophy, rightly defined, is simply the love of wisdom"**_• Cicero

**Steve finished the perimeter patrol**, having found no other sections of fencing in disrepair, just as Slugger rang the bell announcing lunch. Dora stood outside the door, haranguing a reluctant Bernard with "Don't be ridiculous. I don't understand why you're so afraid of her. She's not going to bite your head off."

"That's what _you_ know," Bernard replied testily. "That woman's got the Eye."

"Oh for heaven's sake! Don't be such a child and get in there. You won't even see her. She's still working upstairs."

Steve smirked as he skirted around them to get inside and wash up. Of all of the older women in the village and surrounding countryside with whom he was acquainted, Mrs. Doyle was one of the nicest. She had always treated him with kindness, even after word had got around about his having been in prison. Three years later there were others who still regarded him as an unreformed criminal. Her attitude towards Ron was somewhat less cordial but that was Ron's fault. Her apparent dislike on sight of this new person was curious. Perhaps she knew something they didn't. He'd get Dora to winkle it out.

They were having ham and cheese sandwiches with pickles and crisps for lunch, plain cheese for Bernard. Slugger had put on a pot of coffee for a change. The sound of industrious hoovering filtered down from the upper reaches of the house.

"I was thinkin'," Ron ventured between mouthfuls, "if that horse you found turns up again..."

"What about it?" Steve retorted. "It's probably long gone by now."

"If it's ugly as you say, shouldn't be too hard to find... and you know I been practicin' with the lasso..."

"Yeah. So?" True, the redhead had been fiddling with it off and on for months and had finally got to where he could throw a loop more or less where intended. But getting a rope on a running horse was a far cry from settling it over a fencepost or the heads of lassitudinous donkeys and moribund pit ponies.

"I'm thinkin' if there's four of us, see, and we find him, then you three could drive him in my direction and I could lasso him. Whaddya think? Be fun to try."

Steve snickered. "Might be fun IF we knew where he was and IF we had the time."

"In any case," Dora's interjected. "It's Bernard's horse. You'd better ask him about it."

Two pairs of eyes swiveled in Bernard's direction in surprise. Steve had been upstairs in the bath when that revelation had taken place the prior evening.

"Shouldn't we be lookin' for him? Don't you want him caught?" Ronally finally queried.

"No."

"But... whyever not?" Dora asked.

"He needs his private time. He'll turn up when I need him."

Steve snorted and shook his head. He understood that people needed their private times—hell, he himself needed more than most—but a horse? "What do you do? Whistle for him like a dog? What's his name, anyway?"

"Squirrel."

"Odd name for a horse," Ron opined.

"Hope he rides smoother than he looks," Steve put in.

"Wouldn't know," Bernard said.

"You mean..." Dora was dumbfounded. "You mean you don't ride him... you've _never_ ridden him?"

"Nope."

No one had a comeback for this extraordinary statement although each was thinking the same thing: _Why not?_

Dora stood up when they'd finished eating. "Ron and I are going to Leeds this afternoon to look at a Cortina estate wagon he's heard of that's for sale at a good price." The venerable LandRover had become increasingly undependable lately, to the point where Ron was having to do weekly maintenance on it at the garage his father owned in the town. It needed a major overhaul, but that would take days or weeks and they couldn't afford to be without it that long. Dora had decided that they needed and could afford a newer ride that could double as a passenger car and light duty utility vehicle.

Steve pulled a face and muttered something about unnecessary expenditures, which Dora pointedly ignored.

"He'll drop me at my class this evening so someone needs to come get me at eight. Slugger, don't wait supper for me; we're going to eat whatever we cook in class. Steve, could you see that the boarders in stalls four through eight get a bit of exercise today? I've done one through three. Bernard can help with that, I think. Oh... I almost forgot about Queen Maude... she's staked out on the green in front of the house. She's going to be staying here with us so we need to come up with a suitable shelter. In the meantime, we can put her in with the donkeys, Dottie says."

Steve mumbled, somewhat ungraciously, that he would attend to it.

Slugger started clearing the table and Ron and Dora left. Presently the Rover coughed to life and then wheezed its way northwards towards the county road.

In the new tackroom adjacent to the boarder's stables, Steve pointed to racks containing saddles and bridles provided with the animals; each rack had a corresponding box number with a slot underneath for a placard with each horse's stable name. Current residents included Cookie, Dutchy, Rebel, Poppy, Oreo, Pepper, Tarzan and Flash. On the other wall hung an assortment of equipage decidedly shabbier and showing signs of numerous repairs; this belonged to the farm.

Steve grabbed two leads and started to hand one to Bernard, pausing as he remembered the other's statement about not riding his own horse. "You _can_ ride, right?" he asked dubiously.

"Yes, Steve, I _can_ ride."

They walked over to the paddock where the eight boarders were segregated.

"We'll do maybe an hour apiece," Steve said, "if that's alright with you?"

"Fine."

"I'll take Tarzan first." He pointed out a tall bay gelding for Bernard. "You take Dutchy.

**Securing the two horses to hitching posts**, they went to the tackroom. Scooping Tarzan's saddle and bridle off the rack, Steve watched perplexed as Bernard once again removed his trainers and socks before grabbing a hackamore from a peg by the door.

"What are you doing?"

"I only do bareback," Bernard said. "Saddles don't work for me. Shoes don't work for me, either. Don't tell Dora."

Steve opened his mouth to comment then thought better of it and busied himself saddling his own horse, stealing puzzled glances as Bernard who, having slipped the hackamore on over the halter, was standing directly in front of the horse with his hands gripping the cheekstraps on either side. Bernard was carrying on an earnest one-sided dialogue with Dutchy while the big bay stood perfectly still, giving the appearance of paying equally earnest attention. Then, with an astonished Steve looking on from atop Tarzan, Bernard crouched and vaulted onto Dutchy's back in a single effortless movement.

Dutchy smacked his lips and turned his head as if to investigate this curious absence of both bit and saddle as well as a strange human on his naked back, and decided he was okay with the situation. He moved forward to join his stablemate. Steve and Bernard rode side by side in silence for a while as they traversed the earth dam at the east bank of the lake.

Steve spoke first. "How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Get up there in one jump. He's so tall and you're... not."

"The term is 'vertically challenged'... and I don't know. I just do it."

Bernard's form would cause a riding instructor to hyperventilate, Steve thought. All slouched over, shoulders rounded forward, feet turned inward and toes tucked behind the horse's elbows. But there was no denying he looked relaxed, comfortable and confident. He seemed to be holding the reins as an afterthought. For his part, Dutchy was picking his way as precisely as a tightrope walker.

"I can't promise how they'll behave... they're usually quite spirited and full of beans," Steve warned.

"We'll be fine. Dutchy doesn't want me to fall off so he's being extra careful."

"You talk about horses—and _with_ them —like they were human," Steve ventured.

"Sure. Don't you?"

"Well... yes... in a way. I mean, I talk _to_ them but I don't expect them to answer back. What exactly were you... uh... talking to Dutchy _about_?"

"I introduced myself. I asked for his permission and cooperation. It's only polite."

Steve wasn't sure if this was a serious response or a facetious one.

"And did you... I feel stupid for asking but... did you get an answer?"

"I got an _empathic_ answer."

"Huh?"

"Empathy is being able to experience someone else's feelings and emotions, even if you don't share a common language. Empathy doesn't require speech."

"But you were talking to him out loud," Steve insisted. "I could hear you."

"Force of habit, I suppose... because I can. I'm not telepathic. With a human being, your primary means of communication is speech and writing, plus secondary visual cues in the expression on his face and his body language. But with a horse, body language is _all_ you've got—that's his only way of expressing his feelings on account of he can't talk or laugh or give you the finger. That's why I ride bareback—so I can feel his heart beating and his lungs and muscles working... and he can feel mine. It's all in how you interpret each other's body language."

Steve fell silent as Bernard's words percolated. Never before had anyone, not even Dora, expressed so succinctly the understanding he himself had always had with horses. In his heart he believed he had a symbiotic relationship with them... an ability to converse with and understand them as his grandmother had professed to have with all living things... even her cherished potted plants. Everyone talked out loud to their pets and livestock; that was a given. But Steve held actual conversations with them in his mind as well. Privately, of course... not when others were around. For fear of being thought barmy he had never trusted anyone enough to share this, yet here was another human openly articulating this same belief.

"You're sure putting a lot of trust in an animal that could hurt you if he takes a fright or there's an accident."

"Accidents do happen," Bernard agreed. "But the majority are preventable if people would just use common sense. In the meantime, Dutchy and I have initiated a relationship based on trust: I trust that he's not going to hurt me intentionally—if he does, it will only be because he's trying to protect himself. He trusts that I'm not going to do anything he's going to have to protect himself from."

"Do you feel the same way about people?"

"Yes, usually. Unless they give me cause not to... like shooting at me."

"I said I was sorry! And anyway, you fought back."

"We were both operating on instinct... you were defending your territory and I was defending my life. You might want to work on being a little more judicious about deciding when to go with your instincts and when to trust someone's not out to get you."

**They turned off the farm track onto the woods trail.** Philosophical discussions being such a rarity at Follyfoot, Steve was intrigued by Bernard's optimistic—by Steve's standards—approach to life and relationships. He wanted to hear more.

"Until I came here, my life was... I had a hard time trusting people... still do." In Steve's experience, placing trust in other folks and having faith in the goodness of mankind often as not resulted in being kicked in the teeth.

Bernard considered how best to address that statement without coming over too pontifical. "Trust and faith go hand in hand, and neither one is a black-and-white issue. Very little in life is. In most societies, we're conditioned to trust certain individuals just because they are what they are—authority figures, if you will. Parents, teachers, doctors, law enforcement, elected officials, commanding officers if you're military. Then there're some people who just inspire trust because of their charismatic personalities—usually religious leaders of some flavor or another. This isn't to say they're all _trustworthy_, because sooner or later someone... and more than likely more than one... will fail you. They're only human, after all, and no one's perfect."

"What if it's someone you love, though?"

"You mean like a parent... or a lover? It happens. They break your heart but you still love them even if you feel you can't trust them anymore. You have to either get over it and stay on track... or move on."

"Aren't you afraid of anything?"

"Me? Oh sure... many things, but you can't let fear stop you from reaching out for what you really want in life."

"Like what?" Steve challenged.

Bernard reined up, forcing Steve to do likewise. They were in the tree tunnel now, their mounts standing head to head.

"Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness... that's from the American Declaration of Independence. Education, because knowledge is power. Respect. Love. Good health. A happy home and a happy family. Toys. I may not get everything I want but I intend to have everything I need. I'm not religious by any means but I have faith that these things will come to me in time if I work hard enough toward my goals."

"I wish I had your confidence," Steve said sourly. "I always expect the worst of people and I'm rarely disappointed."

"Wishing doesn't make it so, Steve. Nothing worth having just falls into your lap... you have to set your sights on it and then work to get there. You gotta grab that brass ring if you want to win the prize."

They drifted on to other topics as they rode, with Steve asking a great many questions while inwardly marveling at how effortlessly Bernard supplied cogent answers and explanations. He was remarkably well-informed for someone who couldn't be much older than Steve himself. Steve wondered if this was due to his being brought up in a different culture... or if it was the result of educational advantage. Perhaps what Bernard had said that morning about the possibility of returning to school was something that merited further consideration.

"You have an interesting way of explaining things," Steve ventured, regarding his companion in profile and thinking how liberating it must be to have such an easygoing personality and upbeat temperament. Bernard didn't strike him as being the sort to lose his temper or sit around whingeing when things weren't going his way.

"And you certainly seem to know a lot about a lot of things..." he added with a tinge of sarcasm.

"Oh well... you know what they say... if you can't bedazzle them with brilliance, befuddle them with bulls... uh... baloney."

"I see. Do you always talk this much with people you've only just met?"

"I'm majoring in psychology, Steve. That's what we do. We ask questions, we listen, we answer questions, we talk. We try to help folks understand why they think and act the way they do and what they need to do to change that if they're not happy with it."

"I did time in borstal... that's like a prison for juveniles... when I was sixteen," Steve stated flatly. He rarely referred to this unfortunate period in his history but was curious to see what reaction would follow. "I had to have sessions with a psychiatrist while I was there. He made me feel like there was something wrong with me."

Bernard didn't bat an eye. "A counseling or clinical psychologist isn't the same thing. We approach a patient with the assumption that the subject has normal mental capabilities, no psychiatric disorders, and is capable of taking control of his or her life with proper insight and guidance. It's about putting the ideas in your head and then letting you draw your own conclusions about your future."

"But you're not a doctor yet?"

"No... that's a good ways off yet... but I will be."

"You sound like one now. I'm beginning to feel like a guinea pig... like you've been counseling me since this morning."

"Really? Excellent! Means I'm headed in the right direction. Of course... that's only the half of it."

"What's the other half, then?"

"Feedback. That's when I'd would sit back in my swivel chair, steeple my fingers and look out over the top of my bifocals and ask, 'So, Steve... tell me how you feel about that.' "

Steve laughed. "That's exactly what he did... that psychiatrist."

"So, seriously, Steve—how _do_ you feel about all we've talked about today?"

"I don't much care for someone prying into my business," Steve began slowly, "but everything you say makes sense."

"Good. Glad to hear it."

"But you think I need counseling?"

"Ninety-nine out of a hundred people could benefit from counseling for all kinds of reasons. Getting them to accept that is ninety-nine percent of the difficulty, though."

"Have you ever been to a psychologist yourself?"

"Sure. I had identity issues as a child and emotional problems as a teenager. Counseling got me past that and influenced my career choice."

"You're really weird, you know?"

"I hear that a lot."

They returned to the stable and traded out Tarzan and Dutchy for the next pair—Poppy, a chestnut mare with four white socks and a paint gelding with markings that greatly resembled that of a Dutch belted cow... black fore and aft and most of the white appearing amidships. Bernard laughed when informed his mount was called 'Oreo'.

Steve took his time saddling Poppy while Bernard repeated his getting-acquainted routine with his horse. They followed the same route they had taken earlier with the conversation mostly centered on the boarded horses and what was done with them, in which Bernard made the inquiries and Steve provided the information.

"What all's involved in 'schooling'?"

Steve made a slight detour on the way back to show Bernard the training area, a flat piece of ground to the west of the big lake, where he and Ron had constructed simple hurdles of varying heights and designs, designed to give way easily, as well as a variety of standard obstacles used in competition events.

"You don't do any of this where you live?"

"Not in my world. All we have are working stock and only half-broke at that. You pull a horse off the range when he's about two, slap a saddle on him and climb on. If he throws you off, you get right back on and keep getting back on until he gets the idea. Then you train him to work cattle."

"Sounds a bit brutal. Is that how you trained your horse?" Steve asked.

"Not exactly."

"How is it that you've never ridden your own horse?" Steve couldn't help but ask.

"I just... don't."

"Has he not _ever_ been ridden, then?"

"Yes... just not by me," came the enigmatic reply.

"Is he one of those wild horses? He seemed gentle enough and didn't object to being handled," Steve said.

"Only because he liked you," Bernard answered. "Horses can be better judges of character than most people, and they base their judgments on vibes as much as actions. They can sense when someone is kind and compassionate. They know when someone means them harm, too. They don't care if you're rich or poor, pretty or ugly, whole or crippled. It doesn't matter if you've got a pedigree a mile long or came up from the wrong side of the tracks. All they care about is how you treat them. If you respect them, they'll respect you. This old world would be a kinder and gentler place if people would practice the ethic of reciprocity instead of just preaching it."

"The what?"

"The Golden Rule... you know, 'do unto others' and so on."

Changing the subject, Bernard pointed toward the horizon where clouds were beginning to obscure the lowering sun. "More rain coming."

"Time to bring the others in, then," Steve said. "With any luck we'll get them all settled before it starts."

**Bernard made himself scarce until the housekeeper left for the day** after seeing that Queen Maude had been made comfortable in the companionship of the donkeys. Maude lowed in distress at being separated from her mistress but finally laid herself down to chew her cud unhappily. Steve, Ron and Bernard trooped indoors for the early supper Slugger had prepared: tomato soup and beans on toast. Bernard made do with soup and bread with butter. The other two would have preferred something more substantial and said so.

"There's always leftover stew in the fridge," the chef threatened and there were no further grumblings.

"Think Dora's learned anything in her cookery class?" Ron asked.

"We'll find out soon enough, Slugger answered. "She'll be doin' the honors soon enough on Missus Doyle's days off."

"Better have a good antidote!" Ron groaned morbidly.

Slugger shook a reproving finger. "Look here. The girl's tryin' to learn something that'll benefit all of us... I hope. So I expect you boys to be on your best behavior. No smartalecky remarks or you'll be answerin' to me."

They finished their simple meal. Slugger sent Steve off to shower first and co-opted Bernard to help clear off the table and wash dishes. "And Ron, you can go take out the trash and bring in some firewood before it gets too wet. Wipe your feet when you come back in."

"I have to go pick Dora up," Ron objected.

"Not yet you don't. Now git."

Steve, freshly showered, elected to fetch Dora instead while the other two had their baths. She was in a convivial mood as they regrouped at the table, sharing pudding and tea while she told them about the '72 Ford Cortina estate wagon she had decided to purchase.

"It's perfect for our needs. Ron test drove it and says it's worth what the owner is asking so I've signed the papers and the man will be bringing it over Wednesday after he's fixed a few things.

As Dora briskly outlined her plans and made requests, Bernard sat quietly but watched and listened intently as the other four conversed, parsing out how this obviously close-knit 'family,' though unrelated by blood, interacted. Meanwhile, he was uncomfortably aware that Slugger was watching him just as closely.

**Field Journal: Monday, September 2, 1974 • 11:00pm**

**Location: **Bedroom.

**General: **Steve is interested in what I have to say even if he's still trying not to like me. He's paying attention and starting to think outside the box, which was my intent. If he takes to heart the notion of furthering his education, he could have a solid future ahead. Aside from acquiring new job or professional skills, involvement in an academic community will most certainly assist him in resolving some of his socialization issues, which in turn will enable him to better relate to Dora's outlook on life. Too soon to again bring up the relationship business with Dora, though—he's still touchy about that. All in good time.

So Dora's taking cooking lessons? A sign her nesting instincts are kicking in? Her problem is more in the area of romantic intimacy and there's only so far I can go with that. In the meantime I'll work on her self-confidence deficit.

Slugger maintains an apprehensive attitude toward me but doesn't (yet) appear inclined to interfere. I can't tell yet if the Witch has outed me to him, which of course she can't do without outing herself as well. Ron is too wrapped up in himself to be concerned with me, although he's nosy as hell.

**Plan:** Squirrel needs to put in a brief appearance to back up my story. A team-building exercise in the next day or so might prove useful.

**Note to self:** Not bad for a day's work. Feeling positive about progress so far. Must keep in mind: don't give away too much; don't push too far.

Beans on toast? Gag me with a spoon. Soup was good.

_**Continued in Volume II**_


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